HE  LUCKY  PIECE 

STORY  OF  THE  NORTH  WOODS 


ALBERT 
3IGELOW 


THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 
OF  CALIFORNIA 

LOS  ANGELES 


GIFT  OF 

WILLIAM  P.   WREDEN 


MULL. 


^, 


G 


I 


THE    LUCKY    PIECE 


THE  LUCKY  PIECE 


A  TALE  OF  THE 
NORTH 


IV 

ALBERT   B!  INE 


••THE  VAN  DWELLF; 
•TH 


FRONTISPIECE   IN 


NEW 

THE  OUTING  PUBLISH»v<,  v  OMPANY 


COPYRIGHT,  1906,  BY 
THE  OUTING  PUBLISHING  COMPANY 


COPYRIGHT,  1905,  BY 
THE  BUTTERICK  PUBLISHING  COMPANY 


This  Edition  Published  March,  iqob 


75 

3531 


CONTENTS 

CHAPTER  PAGB 

PROLOGUE      ...         .         .  .       j 

1  BUT  PALADINS  RIDE  FAR  BETWEEN          .  .       6 

2  OUT  IN  THE  BLOWY  WET  WEATHER          .  .      18 

3  THE  DEEP  WOODS  OF  ENCHANTMENT        .  .     34 

4  A  BRIEF  LECTURE  AND  SOME  INTRODUCTIONS  .     48 

5  A  FLOWER  ON  A  MOUNTAIN  TOP      .          .  .66 

6  IN  THE  "  DEVIL'S  GARDEN  "     .          .          .  .80 

7  THE  PATH  THAT  LEADS  BACK  TO  BOYHOOD  .     99 

8  WHAT  CAME  OUT  OF  THE  MIST         .          .  .115 

9  A  SHELTER  IN  THE  FOREST      .          .  .    134 

10  THE  HERMIT'S  STORY       .          .          .          .  .    148 

11  DURING  THE  ABSENCE  OF  CONSTANCE       .  .166 

12  CONSTANCE  RETURNS  AND  HEARS  A  STORY  .    183 

13  WHAT  THE  SMALL  WOMAN  IN  BLACK  SAW  .    193 

14  WHAT  Miss  CARROWAY  DID     .         ,    •:     .  .    208 

15  EDITH  AND  FRANK            .          .          .          .  .219 

16  THE  LUCKY  PIECE 233 

EPILOGUE        .         .         .         .         .         u  .   350 


634.678 


THE   LUCKY   PIECE 


PROLOGUE 

THERE  is  a  sharp  turn  just  above  the  hill.  The 
North  Elba  stage  sometimes  hesitates  there  be- 
fore taking  the  plunge  into  the  valley  below. 

But  this  was  late  September.  The  morning 
was  brisk,  the  mountains  glorified,  the  tourists 
were  going  home.  The  four  clattering,  snorting 
horses  swung  into  the  turn  and  made  straight  for 
the  brow — the  stout,  ruddy-faced  driver- holding 
hard  on  the  lines,  but  making  no  further  effort  to 
check  them.  Then  the  boy  in  the  front  seat  gave 
his  usual  "Hey !  look  there !"  and,  the  other  pas- 
sengers obeying,  as  they  always  did,  saw  some- 
thing not  especially  related  to  Algonquin,  or  Ta- 
hawus,  or  Whitef  ace — the  great  mountains  whose 
slopes  were  ablaze  with  autumn,  their  peaks  al- 
ready tipped  with  snow — that  was  not,  indeed, 
altogether  Adirondack  scenery.  Where  the  bend 
came,  at  the  brink,  a  little  weather-beaten  cottage 
cornered — a  place  with  apple  trees  and  some 
i 


THE  LUCKY   PIECE 

faded  summer  flowers.  In  the  road  in  front  was 
a  broad  flat  stone,  and  upon  it  a  single  figure — a 
little  girl  of  not  more  than  eight — her  arm  ex- 
tended toward  the  approaching  stage,  in  her  hand 
a  saucer  of  berries. 

The  tourists  had  passed  a  number  of  children 
already,  but  this  one  was  different.  The  others 
had  been  mostly  in  flocks — soiled,  stringy-haired 
little  mountaineers,  who  had  gathered  to  see  the 
stage  go  by.  The  smooth,  oval  face  of  this  child, 
rich  under  the  tan,  was  clean,  the  dark  hair  closely 
brushed — her  dress  a  simple  garment,  though  of 
a  fashion  unfavored  by  the  people  of  the  hills. 
All  this  could  be  comprehended  in  the  brief  glance 
allowed  the  passengers ;  also  the  deep  wistful  look 
which  followed  them  as  the  stage  whirled  by 
without  stopping. 

A  lady  in  the  back  seat  (she  had  been  in  Italy) 
murmured  something  about  a  "child  Madonna." 
Another  said,  "Poor  little  thing !" 

But  the  boy  in  the  front  seat  had  caught  the 
driver's  arm  and  was  demanding  that  he  stop  the 
stage. 

"I  want  to  get  out!"  he  repeated,  with  deter- 
mination. "I  want  to  buy  those  berries !  Stop !" 

The  driver  could  not  stop  just  there,  even  had 

2 


PROLOGUE 

he  wished  to  do  so,  which  he  did  not.  They  were 
already  a  third  of  the  way  down,  and  the  hill  was 
a  serious  matter.  So  the  boy  leaned  out,  looking 
back,  to  make  sure  the  moment's  vision  had  not 
faded,  and  when  the  stage  struck  level  ground, 
was  out  and  running,  long  before  the  horses  had 
been  brought  to  a  stand-still. 

"You  wait  for  me!"  he  commanded.  "I'll  be 
back  in  a  second!"  Then  he  pushed  rapidly  up 
the  long  hill,  feeling  in  his  pockets  as  he  ran. 

The  child  had  not  moved  from  her  place,  and 
stood  curiously  regarding  the  approaching  boy. 
He  was  considerably  older  than  she  was,  as  much 
as  six  years.  Her  wistful  look  gave  way  to  one 
of  timidity  as  he  came  near.  She  drew  the  saucer 
of  berries  close  to  her  and  looked  down.  Then, 
puffing  and  panting,  he  stood  there,  still  rummag- 
ing in  his  pockets,  and  regaining  breath  for 
words. 

"Say,"  he  began,  "I  want  your  berries,  you 
know,  only,  you  see,  I — I  thought  I  had  some 
money,  but  I  haven't — not  a  cent — only  my  lucky 
piece.  My  mother's  in  the  stage  and  I  could  get 
it  from  her,  but  I  don't  want  to  go  back."  He 
made  a  final,  wild,  hopeless  search  through  a  num- 
ber of  pockets,  looking  down,  meanwhile,  at  the 
3 


THE  LUCKY   PIECE 

little  bowed  figure  standing  mutely  before  him. 
"Look  here,"  he  went  on,  "I'm  going  to  give  you 
my  lucky  piece.  Maybe  it'll  bring  luck  to  you, 
too.  It  did  to  me — I  caught  an  awful  lot  of  fish 
up  here  this  summer.  But  you  mustn't  spend  it 
or  give  it  away,  'cause  some  day  when  I  come 
back  up  here  I'll  want  it  again.  You  keep  it  for 
me — that's  what  you  do.  Keep  it  safe.  When  I 
come  back,  I'll  give  you  anything  you  like  for  it. 
Whatever  you  want — only  you  must  keep  it. 
Will  you?" 

He  held  out  the  worn  Spanish  silver  piece 
which  a  school  chum  had  given  him  "for  luck" 
when  they  had  parted  in  June.  But  the  little 
brown  hand  clung  to  the  berries  and  made  no  ef- 
fort to  take  it. 

"Oh,  you  must  take  it,"  he  said.  "I  should 
lose  it  anyway.  I  always  lose  things.  You  can 
take  care  of  it  for  me.  Likely  I'll  be  up  again 
next  year.  Anyway,  I'll  come  some  time,  and 
when  I  do  I'll  give  you  whatever  you  like  in  ex- 
change for  it." 

She  did  not  resist  when  he  took  the  berries  and 

poured  them  into  his  cap.     Then  the  coin  was 

pushed  into  one  of  her  brown  hands  and  he  was 

pressing  her  fingers  tightly  upon  it.     When  she 

4 


PROLOGUE 

dared  to  look  up,  he  had  called,  "Good-bye!"  and 
was  halfway  down  the  hill,  the  others  looking  out 
of  the  stage,  waving  him  to  hurry. 

She  watched  him,  saw  him  climb  in  with  the 
driver  and  fling  his  hand  toward  her  as  the  stage 
rounded  into  the  wood  and  disappeared.  Still  she 
did  not  move,  but  watched  the  place  where  it  had 
vanished,  as  if  she  thought  it  might  reappear,  as 
if  presently  that  sturdy  boy  might  come  hurrying 
up  the  hill.  Then  slowly — very  slowly,  as  if  she 
held  some  living  object  that  might  escape — she 
unclosed  her  hand  and  looked  at  the  treasure 
within,  turning  it  over,  wondering  at  the  curious 
markings.  The  old  look  came  into  her  face  again, 
but  with  it  an  expression  which  had  not  been 
there  before.  It  was  some  hint  of  responsibility, 
of  awakening.  Vaguely  she  felt  that  suddenly  and 
by  some  marvelous  happening  she  had  been 
linked  with  a  new  and  wonderful  world.  All  at 
once  she  turned  and  fled  through  the  gate,  to  the 
cottage. 

"Mother !"  she  cried  at  the  door,  "Oh,  Mother ! 
Something  has  happened!"  and,  flinging  herself 
into  the  arms  of  the  faded  woman  who  sat  there, 
she  burst  into  a  passion  of  tears. 


CHAPTER  I 

BUT   PALADINS   RIDE   FAR   BETWEEN 

FRANK  rose  and,  plunging  his  hands  into  his 
pockets,  lounged  over  to  the  wide  window  and 
gazed  out  on  the  wild  March  storm  which  was 
drenching  and  dismaying  Fifth  Avenue.  A 
weaving  throng  of  carriages,  auto-cars  and  deliv- 
ery wagons  beat  up  and  down  against  it,  were 
driven  by  it  from  behind,  or  buffeted  from  many 
directions  at  the  corners.  Coachmen,  footmen 
and  drivers  huddled  down  into  their  waterproofs ; 
pedestrians  tried  to  breast  the  rain  with  their  um- 
brellas and  frequently  lost  them.  From  where 
he  stood  the  young  man  could  count  five  torn 
and  twisted  derelicts  soaking  in  gutters.  They 
seemed  so  very  wet — everything  did.  When  a 
stage — that  relic  of  another  day — lumbered  by, 
the  driver  on  top,  only  half  sheltered  by  his  bat- 
tered oil-skins,  seemed  wetter  and  more  dismal 
than  any  other  object.  It  all  had  an  art  value, 
certainly,  but  there  were  pleasanter  things  within. 
6 


PALADINS  RIDE  FAR  BETWEEN 

The  young  man  turned  to  the  luxurious  room, 
with  its  wide  blazing  fire  and  the  young  girl 
who  sat  looking  into  the  glowing  depths. 

"Do  you  know,  Constance,"  he  said,  "I  think 
you  are  a- bit  hard  on  me."  Then  he  drifted  into 
a  very  large  and  soft  chair  near  her,  and,  stretch- 
ing out  his  legs,  stared  comfortably  into  the  fire 
as  if  the  fact  were  no  such  serious  matter,  after 
all. 

The  girl  smiled  quietly.  She  had  a  rich  oval 
face,  with  a  deep  look  in  her  eyes,  at  once  wistful 
and  eager,  and  just  a  bit  restless,  as  if  there  were 
problems  there  among  the  coals — questions  she 
could  not  wholly  solve. 

"I  did  not  think  of  it  in  that  way,"  she  said, 
"and  you  should  not  call  me  Constance,  not  now, 
and  you  are  Mr.  Weatherby.  I  do  not  know  how 
we  ever  began — the  other  way.  I  was  only  a 
girl,  of  course,  and  did  not  know  America  so  well, 
or  realize — a  good  many  things." 

The  young  man  stirred  a  little  without  looking 
up. 

"I  know,"  he   assented;  "I  realize  that  six 
months  seems  a  long  period  to  a — to  a  young  per- 
son, and  makes  a  lot  of  difference,  sometimes.    I 
believe  you  have  had  a  birthday  lately." 
7 


THE  LUCKY   PIECE 

"Yes,  my  eighteenth — my  majority.  That 
ought  to  make  a  difference." 

"Mine  didn't  to  me.  I'm  just  about  the  same 
now  as  I  was  then,  and " 

"As  you  always  will  be.  That  is  just  the  trou- 
ble." 

"I  was  going  to  say,  as  I  always  had  been." 

"Which  would  not  be  true.  You  were  differ- 
ent, as  a  boy." 

"And  who  gave  you  that  impression,  pray?" 

The  girl  flushed  a  little. 

"I  mean,  you  must  have  been,"  she  added,  a 
trifle  inconsequently.  "Boys  always  are.  You 
had  ambitions,  then." 

"Well,  yes,  and  I  gratified  them.  I  wanted  to 
be  captain  of  my  college  team,  and  I  was.  We 
held  the  championship  as  long  as  I  held  the  place. 
I  wanted  to  make  a  record  in  pole-vaulting,  and 
I  did.  It  hasn't  been  beaten  since.  Then  I  wanted 
the  Half-mile  Cup,  and  I  won  that,  too.  I  think 
those  were  my  chief  aspirations  when  I  entered 
college,  and  when  I  came  out  there  were  no  more 
worlds  to  conquer.  Incidentally  I  carried  off  the 
honors  for  putting  into  American  some  of  Mr. 
Horace's  justly  popular  odes,  edited  the  college 
paper  for  a  year,  and  was  valedictorian  of  the 
8 


PALADINS   RIDE  FAR  BETWEEN 

class.  But  those  were  trivial  things.  It  was  my 
prowess  that  gave  me  standing  and  will  remain 
one  of  the  old  school's  traditions  long  after  this 
flesh  has  become  dust." 

The  girl's  eyes  had  grown  brighter  as  he  re- 
counted his  achievements.  She  could  not  help 
stealing  a  glance  of  admiration  at  the  handsome 
fellow  stretched  out  before  her,  whose  athletic 
deeds  had  made  him  honored  among  his  kind. 
Then  she  smiled. 

"Perhaps  you  were  a  pillar  of  modesty,  too," 
she  commented,  "once." 

He  laughed — a  gentle,  lazy  laugh  in  which 
she  joined — and  presently  she  added : 

"Of  course,  I  know  you  did  those  things.  That 
is  just  it.  You  could  do  anything,  and  be  any- 
thing, if  you  only  would.  Oh,  but  you  don't  seem 
to  care!  You  seem  satisfied,  comfortable  and 
good-naturedly  indifferent;  if  you  were  poor,  I 
should  say  idle —  I  suppose  the  trouble  is  there. 
You  have  never  been  poor  and  lonely  and  learned 
to  want  things.  So,  of  course,  you  never  learned 
to  care  for — for  anything." 

Her  companion  leaned  toward  her — his  hand- 
some face  full  of  a  light  that  was  not  all  of  the 
fire. 


THE  LUCKY  PIECE 

"I  have,  for  you,"  he  whispered. 

The  girl's  face  lighted,  too.  Her  eyes  seemed 
to  look  into  some  golden  land  which  she  was  not 
quite  willing  to  enter. 

"No,"  she  demurred  gently.  "I  am  not  sure 
of  that.  Let  us  forget  about  that.  As  you  say, 
a  half-year  has  been  a  long  time — to  a  child.  I 
had  just  come  from  abroad  then  with  my  parents, 
and  I  had  been  most  of  the  time  in  a  school  where 
girls  are  just  children,  no  matter  what  their  ages. 
When  we  came  home,  I  suppose  I  did  not  know 
just  what  to  do  with  my  freedom.  And  then, 
you  see,  Father  and  Mother  liked  you,  and  let  you 
come  to  the  house,  and  when  I  first  saw  you  and 
knew  you — when  I  got  to  know  you,  I  mean — I 
was  glad  to  have  you  come,  too.  Then  we  rode 
and  drove  and  golfed  all  those  days  about  Lenox 
— all  those  days — your  memory  is  poor,  very 
poor,  but  you  may  recall  those  October  days,  last 
year,  when  I  had  just  come  home — those  days, 
you  know " 

Again  the  girl's  eyes  were  looking  far  into 
a  fair  land  which  queens  have  willingly  died 
to  enter,  while  the  young  man  had  pulled  his 
chair  close,  as  one  eager  to  lead  her  across  the 
border. 

10 


PALADINS  RIDE  FAR  BETWEEN 

"No,"  she  went  on — speaking  more  to  herself 
than  to  him,  "I  am  older,  now — ages  older,  and 
trying  to  grow  wise,  and  to  see  things  as  they  are. 
Riding,  driving  and  golfing  are  not  all  of  life. 
Life  is  serious — a  sort  of  battle,  in  which  one 
must  either  lead  or  follow  or  merely  look  on. 
You  were  not  made  to  follow,  and  I  could  not 
bear  to  have  you  look  on.  I  always  thought  of 
you  as  a  leader.  During  those  days  at  Lenox  you 
seemed  to  me  a  sort  of  king,  or  something  like 
that,  at  play.  You  see  I  was  just  a  schoolgirl 
with  ideals,  keeping  the  shield  of  Launcelot 
bright.  I  had  idealized  him  so  long — the  one  I 
should  meet  some  day.  It  was  all  very  foolish, 
but  I  had  pictured  him  as  a  paladin  in  armor, 
who  would  have  diversions,  too,  but  who  would 
lay  them  aside  to  go  forth  and  redress  wrong. 
You  see  what  a  silly  child  I  was,  and  how  nec^s- 
sary  it  was  for  me  to  change  when  I  found  that 
I  had  been  dreaming,  that  the  one  I  had  met 
never  expected  to  conquer  or  do  battle  for  a  cause 
— that  the  diversions  were  the  end  and  sum  of  his 
desire,  with  maybe  a  little  love-making  as  a  part 
of  it  all." 

"A  little — "  Her  companion  started  to  enter 
protest,  but  did  not  continue.  The  girl  was  star- 
ii 


THE  LUCKY  PIECE 

ing  into  the  fire  as  she  spoke  and  seemed  only 
to  half  remember  his  existence.  For  the  most 
part  he  had  known  her  as  one  full  of  the  very  joy 
of  living,  given  to  seeing  life  from  its  cheerful, 
often  from  its  humorous,  side.  Yet  he  knew  her 
to  be  volatile,  a  creature  of  moods.  This  one, 
which  he  had  learned  to  know  but  lately,  would 
pass.  He  watched  her,  a  little  troubled  yet  fasci- 
nated by  it  all,  his  whole  being  stirred  by  the 
charm  of  her  presence. 

"One  so  strong — so  qualified — should  lead," 
she  continued  slowly,  "not  merely  look  on.  Oh, 
if  I  were  a  man  I  should  lead — I  should  ride  to 
victory !  I  should  be  a — a — I  do  not  know  what," 
she  concluded  helplessly,  "but  I  should  ride  to 
victory." 

He  restrained  any  impulse  he  may  have  had  to 
smile,  and  presently  said,  rather  quietly : 

"I  suppose  there  are  avenues  of  conquest  to- 
day, as  there  were  when  the  world  was  young. 
But  I  am  afraid  they  are  so  crowded  with  the 
rank  and  file  that  paladins  ride  few  and  far  be- 
tween. You  know,"  he  added,  more  lightly, 
"knight-errantry  has  gone  out  of  fashion,  and 
armor  would  be  a  clumsy  thing  to  wear — cross- 
ing Broadway,  for  instance." 
12 


PALADINS   RIDE  FAR  BETWEEN 

She  laughed  happily — her  sense  of  humor  was 
never  very  deeply  buried. 

"I  know,"  she  nodded,  "we  do  not  meet  many 
Galahads  these  days,  and  most  of  the  armor  is 
make-believe,  yet  I  am  sure  there  are  knights 
whom  we  do  not  recognize,  with  armor  which  we 
do  not  see." 

The  young  man  sat  up  a  bit  straighter  in  his 
chair  and  assumed  a  more  matter-of-fact  tone. 

"Suppose  we  put  aside  allegory,"  he  said, 
"and  discuss  just  how  you  think  a  man — myself, 
for  instance — could  set  the  world  afire — make  it 
wiser  and  better,  I  mean." 

The  embers  were  dying  down,  and  she  looked 
into  them  a  little  longer  before  replying.  Then, 
presently : 

"Oh,  if  I  were  only  a  man!"  she  repeated. 
"There  is  so  much — so  many  things — for  a  man 
to  do.  Discovery,  science,  feats  of  engineering, 
the  professions,  the  arts,  philanthropy — oh,  ev- 
erything! And  for  us,  so  little!" 

A  look  of  amusement  grew  about  the  young 
man's  mouth.  He  had  seen  much  more  of  the 
world  than  she ;  was  much  older  in  a  manner  not 
reckoned  by  years. 

"We  do  not  monopolize  it  all,  you  know.  Quite 
13 


THE  LUCKY   PIECE 

a  few  women  are  engaged  in  the  professions  and 
philanthropy ;  many  in  the  arts." 

"The  arts,  yes,  but  I  am  without  talent.  I  play 
because  I  have  been  taught,  and  because  I  have 
practiced — oh,  so  hard !  But  God  never  intended 
that  the  world  should  hear  me.  I  love  painting 
and  literature,  and  all  those  things.  But  I  can- 
not create  them.  I  can  only  look  on.  I  have 
thought  of  the  professions — I  have  thought  a 
great  deal  about  medicine  and  the  law.  But  I  am 
afraid  those  would  not  do,  either.  I  cannot  un- 
derstand law  papers,  even  the  very  simple  ones 
Father  has  tried  to  explain  to  me.  And  I  am  not 
careful  enough  with  medicines — I  almost  poi- 
soned poor  Mamma  last  week  with  something 
that  looked  like  her  headache  drops  and  turned 
out  to  be  a  kind  of  preparation  for  bruises. 
Besides,  somehow  I  never  can  quite  see  myself  as 
a  lawyer  in  court,  or  going  about  as  a  doctor. 
Lawyers  always  have  to  go  to  court,  don't  they  ? 
I  am  afraid  I  should  be  so  confused,  and  maybe 
be  arrested.  They  arrest  lawyers  don't  they, 
sometimes?" 

'They  should,"  admitted  the  young  man, 
"more  often  than  they  do.  I  don't  believe  you 
ought  to  take  the  risk,  at  any  rate.  I  somehow 


PALADINS  RIDE  FAR  BETWEEN 

can't  think  of  you  either  as  a  lawyer  or  a  doctor. 
Those  things  don't  seem  to  fit  you." 

"That's  just  it.  Nothing  fits  me.  Oh,  I  am 
not  even  as  much  as  I  seem  to  be,  yet  can  be  noth- 
ing else!"  she  burst  out  rather  incoherently,  then 
somewhat  hastily  added:  "There  is  philan- 
thropy, of  course.  I  could  do  good,  I  suppose, 
and  Father  would  furnish  the  money.  But  I  could 
never  undertake  things.  I  should  just  have  to 
follow,  and  contribute.  Some  one  would  always 
have  to  lead.  Some  one  who  could  go  among 
people  and  comprehend  their  needs,  and  know 
how  to  go  to  work  to  supply  them.  I  should 
do  the  wrong  thing  and  make  trouble " 

"And  maybe  get  arrested " 

They  laughed  together.  They  were  little  more 
than  children,  after  all. 

"I  know  there  are  women  who  lead  in  such 
things,"  she  went  on.  "They  come  here  quite 
often,  and  Father  gives  them  a  good  deal.  But 
they  always  seem  so  self-possessed  and  capable. 
I  stand  in  awe  of  them,  and  I  always  wonder  how 
they  came  to  be  made  so  wise  and  brave,  and  why 
most  of  us  are  so  different.  I  always  wonder." 

The  young  man  regarded  her  very  tenderly. 

"I  am  glad  you  are  different,"  he  said  earnestly. 
15 


THE  LUCKY   PIECE 

"My  mother  is  a  little  like  that,  and  of  course 
I  think  the  world  of  her.  Still,  I  am  glad  you  are 
different." 

He  leaned  over  and  lifted  an  end  of  log  with 
the  tongs.  A  bright  blaze  sprang  up,  and  for  a 
while  they  watched  it  without  speaking.  It 
seemed  to  Frank  Weatherby  that  nothing  in  the 
world  was  so  worth  while  as  to  be  there  near  her 
— to  watch  her  there  in  the  firelight  that  lingered 
a  little  to  bring  out  the  rich  coloring  of  her  rare 
young  face,  then  flickered  by  to  glint  among  the 
deep  frames  along  the  wall,  to  lose  itself  at  last 
amid  the  heavy  hangings.  He  was  careful  not 
to  renew  their  discussion,  and  hoped  she  had  for- 
gotten it.  There  had  been  no  talk  of  these  mat- 
ters during  their  earlier  acquaintance,  when  she 
had  but  just  returned  with  her  parents  from  a 
long  sojourn  abroad.  That  had  been  at  Lenox, 
where  they  had  filled  the  autumn  season  with 
happy  recreation,  and  a  love-making  which  he 
had  begun  half  in  jest  and  then,  all  at  once,  found 
that  for  him  it  meant  more  than  anything  else  in 
the  world.  Not  that  anything  had  hitherto  meant 
a  great  deal.  He  had  been  an  only  boy,  with  a 
fond  mother,  and  there  was  a  great  deal  of  money 
between  them.  It  had  somehow  never  been  a  part 
16 


PALADINS   RIDE  FAR  BETWEEN 

of  his  education  that  those  who  did  not  need  to 
strive  should  do  so.  His  mother  was  a  woman 
of  ideas,  but  this  had  not  been  one  of  them.  Per- 
haps as  a  boy  he  had  dreamed  his  dreams,  but 
somehow  there  had  never  seemed  a  reason  for 
making  them  reality.  The  idea  of  mental  and 
spiritual  progress,  of  being  a  benefactor  of  man- 
kind was  well  enough,  but  it  was  somehow  an 
abstract  thing — something  apart  from  him — at 
least,  from  the  day  of  youth  and  love. 


CHAPTER  II 

OUT  IN  THE  BLOWY  WET  WEATHER 

THE  room  lightened  a  little  and  Constance  rose 
and  walked  to  the  window. 

"It  isn't  raining  so  hard,  any  more,"  she  said. 
"I  think  I  shall  go  for  a  walk  in  the  Park." 

The  young  man  by  the  fire  looked  a  little  dis- 
mayed. The  soft  chair  and  the  luxurious  room 
were  so  much  more  comfortable  than  the  Park  on 
such  a  day  as  this. 

"Don't  you  think  we'd  better  put  it  off?"  he 
asked,  walking  over  beside  her.  "It's  still  raining 
a  good  deal,  and  it's  quite  windy." 

"I  said  that  /  was  going  for  a  walk  in  the 
Park,"  the  girl  reiterated.  "I  shall  run,  too. 
When  I  was  a  child  I  always  loved  to  run  through 
a  storm.  It  seemed  like  flying.  You  can  stay 
here  by  the  fire  and  keep  nice  and  cozy.  Mamma 
will  be  glad  to  come  in  and  talk  to  you.  She 
will  not  urge  you  to  do  and  be  things.  She  thinks 
you  well  enough  as  you  are.  She  says  you  have 
18 


OUT  IN  THE  BLOWY  WEATHER 

repose,  and  that  you  rest  her — she  means,  of 
course,  after  a  session  with  me." 

"I  have  the  greatest  regard  for  your  mother — 
I  might  even  say  sympathy.  Indeed,  when  I  con- 
sider the  serene  yet  sterling  qualities  of  both 
your  parents,  I  find  myself  speculating  on  the 
origin  of  your  own — eh — rather  unusual  and,  I 
hasten  to  add,  wholly  charming  personality." 

She  smiled,  but  he  thought  a  little  sadly. 

"I  know,"  she  said,  "I  am  a  trial,  and,  oh,  I 
want  to  be  such  a  comfort  to  them !"  Then  she 
added,  somewhat  irrelevantly,  "But  Father  made 
his  fight,  too.  It  was  in  trade,  of  course,  but  it 
was  a  splendid  battle,  and  he  won.  He  was  a 
poor  boy,  you  know,  and  the  struggle  was  bitter. 
You  should  stay  and  ask  him  to  tell  you  about 
it.  He  will  be  home  presently." 

He  adopted  her  serious  tone. 

"I  think  myself  I  should  stay  and  have  an  im- 
portant talk  with  your  father,"  he  said.  "I  have 
been  getting  up  courage  to  speak  for  some  time." 

She  affected  not  to  hear,  and  presently  they 
were  out  in  the  wild  weather,  protected  by  water- 
proofs and  one  huge  umbrella,  beating  their  way 
toward  the  Fifty-ninth  Street  entrance  to  Central 
Park.  Not  many  people  were  there,  and,  once 


THE   LUCKY  PIECE 

within,  they  made  their  way  by  side  paths,  run- 
ning and  battling  with  the  wind,  laughing  and 
shouting  like  children,  until  at  last  they  dropped 
down  on  a  wet  bench  to  recover  breath. 

"Oh,"  she  panted,  "that  was  fine!  How  I 
should  like  to  be  in  the  mountains  such  weather 
as  this.  I  dream  of  being  there  almost  every 
night.  I  can  hardly  wait  till  we  go." 

Her  companion  assented  rather  doubtfully. 

"I  have  been  in  the  mountains  in  March,"  he 
said.  "It  was  pretty  nasty.  I  suppose  you  have 
spent  summers  there.  I  believe  you  went  to  the 
Pyrenees." 

"But  I  know  the  mountains  in  March,  too — 
in  every  season,  and  I  love  them  in  all  weathers. 
I  love  the  storms,  when  the  snow  and  sleet  and 
wind  come  driving  down,  and  the  trees  crack,  and 
the  roads  are  blocked,  and  the  windows  are  cov- 
ered with  ice ;  when  there's  a  big  drift  at  the  door 
that  you  must  climb  over,  and  that  stays  there  al- 
most till  the  flowers  bloom.  And  when  the  winter 
is  breaking,  and  the  great  rains  come,  and  the 
wind, — oh,  it's  no  such  little  wind  as  this,  but 
wind  that  tears  up  big  trees  and  throws  them 
about  for  fun,  and  the  limbs  fly,  and  it's  dan- 
gerous to  go  out  unless  you  look  everywhere, 
20 


OUT   IN   THE  BLOWY   WEATHER 

and  in  the  night  something  strikes  the  roof, 
and  you  wake  up  and  lie  there  and  wonder  if 
the  house  itself  won't  be  carried  away  soon, 
perhaps  to  the  ocean,  and  turn  into  a  ship  that 
will  sail  until  it  reaches  a  country  where  the 
sun  shines  and  there  are  palm  trees,  and  men 
who  wear  turbans,  and  where  there  are  marble 
houses  with  gold  on  them.  And  in  that  coun- 
try where  the  little  house  might  land,  a  lot  of 
people  come  down  to  the  shore  and  they  kneel 
down  and  say,  'The  sea  has  brought  a  princess 
to  rule  over  us.'  Then  they  put  a  crown  on  her 
head  and  lead  her  to  one  of  the  marble  and  gold 
houses,  so  she  could  rule  the  country  and  live 
happy  ever  after." 

As  the  girl  ran  on,  her  companion  sat  motion- 
less, listening — meanwhile  steadying'  their  big 
umbrella  to  keep  their  retreat  cozy.  When  she 
paused,  he  said : 

"I  did  not  know  that  you  knew  the  hills  in 
winter.  You  have  seen  and  felt  much  more  than 
I.  And,"  he  added  reflectively,  "I  should  not 
think,  with  such  fancy  as  yours,  that  you  need 
want  for  a  vocation ;  you  should  write." 

She  shook  her  head  rather  gravely.  "It  is  not 
fancy,"  she  said,  "at  least  not  imagination.  It 
21 


THE  LUCKY  PIECE 

is  only  reading.  Every  child  with  a  fairy-book 
for  companionship,  and  nature,  rides  on  the  wind 
or  follows  subterranean  passages  to  a  regal  in- 
heritance. Such  things  mean  nothing  afterward. 
I  shall  never  write." 

They  made  their  way  to  the  Art  Museum  to 
wander  for  a  little  through  the  galleries.  In  the 
Egyptian  room  they  lingered  by  those  glass  cases 
where  men  and  women  who  died  four  thousand 
years  ago  lie  embalmed  in  countless  wrappings 
and  cryptographic  cartonnage — exhibits,  now, 
for  the  curious  eye,  waiting  whatever  further 
change  the  upheavals  of  nations  or  the  progress 
of  an  alien  race  may  bring  to  pass. 

They  spoke  in  subdued  voice  as  they  regarded 
one  slender  covering  which  enclosed  "A  Lady  of 
the  House  of  Artun" — trying  to  rebuild  in  fancy 
her  life  and  surroundings  of  that  long  ago  time. 
Then  they  passed  to  the  array  of  fabrics — bits  of 
old  draperies  and  clothing,  even  dolls'  garments 
— that  had  found  the  light  after  forty  centuries, 
and  they  paused  a  little  at  the  cases  of  curious 
lamps  and  ornaments  and  symbols  of  a  vanished 
people. 

"Oh,  I  should  like  to  explore,"  she  murmured, 
as  she  looked  at  them.  "I  should  like  to  lead  an 
22 


OUT   IN   THE   BLOWY   WEATHER 

expedition  to  uncover  ancient  cities,  somewhere 
in  Egypt,  or  India,  or  Yucatan.  I  should  like  to 
find  things  right  where  they  were  left  by  the 
people  who  last  saw  them — not  here,  all  arranged 
and  classified,  with  numbers  pasted  on  them.  If 
I  were  a  man,  I  should  be  an  explorer,  or  maybe 
a  discoverer  of  new  lands — places  where  no  one 
had  ever  been  before."  She  turned  to  him  eager- 
ly, "Why  don't  you  become  an  explorer,  and  find 
old  cities  or — or  the  North  Pole,  or  something?" 

Mr.  Weatherby,  who  was  studying  a  fine  sca- 
rab, nodded. 

"I  have  thought  of  it,  I  believe.  I  think  the 
idea  appealed  to  me  once.  But,  don't  you  see,  it 
takes  a  kind  of  genius  for  those  things.  Discov- 
erers are  born,  I  imagine,  as  well  as  poets.  Be- 
sides"— he  lowered  his  voice  to  a  pitch  that  was 
meant  for  tenderness — "at  the  North  Pole  I 
should  be  so  far  from  you — unless,"  he  added, 
reflectively,  "we  went  there  on  our  wedding 
journey." 

"Which  we  are  as  likely  to  do  as  to  go  any- 
where," she  said,  rather  crossly. 

They  passed  through  the  corridor  of  statuary 
and  up  the  stairway  to  wander  among  the  paint- 
ings of  masters  old  and  young.  By  a  wall  where 
23 


THE  LUCKY   PIECE 

the  works  of  Van  Dyck,  Rembrandt  and  Velas- 
quez hung,  she  turned  on  him  reproachfully. 

"These  men  have  left  something  behind  them," 
she  commented — something  which  the  world  will 
preserve  and  honor.  What  will  you  leave  be- 
hind you  ?" 

"I  fear  it  won't  be  a  picture,"  he  said  humbly. 
"I  can't  imagine  one  of  my  paintings  being  hung 
here  or  any  place  else.  They  might  hang  the 
painter,  of  course,  though  not  just  here,  I  fancy." 

In  another  room  they  lingered  before  a  paint- 
ing of  a  boy  and  a  girl  driving  home  the  cows 
— Israel's  "Bashful  Suitor."  The  girl  contem- 
plated it  through  half-closed  lids. 

"You  did  not  look  like  that,"  she  said.  "You 
were  a  self-possessed  big  boy,  with  smart  clothes, 
and  an  air  of  ownership  that  comes  of  having  a 
lot  of  money.  You  were  a  good-hearted  boy, 
rather  impulsive,  I  should  think,  but  careless  and 
spoiled.  Had  Israel  chosen  you  it  would  have 
been  the  girl  who  was  timid,  not  you." 

He  laughed  easily. 

"Now,  how  can  you  possibly  know  what  I 
looked  like  as  a  boy?"  he  demanded.     "Perhaps 
I  was  just  such  a  slim,  diffident  little  chap  as  that 
one.    Time  works  miracles,  you  know." 
24 


OUT   IN  THE  BLOWY  WEATHER 

"But  even  time  has  its  limitations.  I  know  per- 
fectly well  how  you  looked  at  that  boy's  age. 
Sometimes  I  see  boys  pass  along  in  front  of  the 
house,  and  I  say :  'There,  he  was  just  like  that !'  " 

Frank  felt  his  heart  grow  warm.  It  seemed  to 
him  that  her  confession  showed  a  depth  of  inter- 
est not  acknowledged  before. 

"I'll  try  to  make  amends,  Constance,"  he  said, 
"by  being  a  little  nearer  what  you  would  like  to 
have  me  now,"  and  could  not  help  adding,  "only 
you'll  have  to  decide  just  what  particular  thing 
you  want  me  to  be,  and  please  don't  have  the 
North  Pole  in  it." 

Out  in  the  blowy  wet  weather  again,  by  ave- 
nues and  by-ways,  they  raced  through  the  Park, 
climbing  up  to  look  over  at  the  wind-driven  water 
of  the  old  reservoir,  clambering  down  a  great  wet 
bowlder  on  the  other  side — the  girl  as  agile  and 
sure  of  foot  as  a  boy.  Then  they  pushed  toward 
Eighth  Avenue,  missed  the  entrance  and  wan- 
dered about  in  a  labyrinth  of  bridle-paths  and 
footways,  suddenly  found  themselves  back  at  the 
big  bowlder  again,  scrambled  up  it  warm  and 
flushed  with  the  exertion,  and  dropped  down 
for  a  moment  to  breathe  and  to  get  their 
bearings. 

25 


THE  LUCKY  PIECE 

"I  always  did  get  lost  in  this  place,"  he  said. 
"I  have  never  been  able  to  cross  the  Park  and  be 
sure  just  where  I  was  coming  out."  Then  they 
laughed  together  happily,  glad  to  be  lost — glad  it 
was  raining  and  blowing — glad,  as  children  are 
always  glad,  to  be  alive  and  together. 

They  were  more  successful,  this  time,  and  pres- 
ently took  an  Eighth  Avenue  car,  going  down — 
not  because  they  especially  wanted  to  go  down, 
but  because  at  that  time  in  the  afternoon  the 
down  cars  were  emptier.  They  had  no  plans  as 
to  where  they  were  going,  it  being  their  habit  on 
such  excursions  to  go  without  plans  and  to  come 
when  the  spirit  moved. 

They  transferred  at  the  Columbus  statue,  and 
she  stood  looking  up  at  it  as  they  waited  for  a 
car. 

"That  is  my  kind  of  a  discoverer,"  she  said; 
"one  who  sails  out  to  find  a  new  world." 

"Yes,"  he  agreed,  "and  the  very  next  time 
there  is  a  new  world  to  be  discovered  I  am  going 
to  do  it." 

The   lights   were  already  coming   out  along 

Broadway,  this   gloomy  wet   evening,   and   the 

homing  throng  on  the  pavements  were  sheltered 

by  a  gleaming,  tossing  tide  of  umbrellas.    Frank 

26 


OUT   IN   THE  BLOWY   WEATHER 

and  Constance  got  out  at  Madison  Square,  at  the 
Worth  monument,  and  looked  down  toward  the 
"Flat-iron"  —  a  pillar  of  light,  looming  into 
the  mist. 

"Everywhere  are  achievements,"  said  the  girl. 
"That  may  not  be  a  thing  of  beauty,  but  it  is  a 
great  piece  of  engineering.  They  have  nothing 
like  those  buildings  abroad — at  least  I  have  not 
seen  them.  Oh,  this  is  a  wonderful  country,  and 
it  is  those  splendid  engineers  who  have  helped  to 
make  it  so.  I  know  of  one  young  man  who  is 
going  to  be  an  engineer.  He  was  just  a  poor 
boy — so  poor — and  has  worked  his  way.  He 
would  never  take  help  from  anybody.  I  shall  see 
him  this  summer,  when  we  go  to  the  mountains. 
He  is  to  be  not  far  away.  Oh,  you  don't  know 
how  proud  I  shall  be  of  him,  and  how  I  want  to 
see  him  and  tell  him  so.  Wouldn't  you  be  proud 
of  a  boy  like  that,  a — a  son  or — a  brother,  for 
instance  ?" 

She  looked  up  at  him  expectantly — a  dash 
of  rain  glistening  on  her  cheek  and  in  the 
little  tangle  of  hair  about  her  temples.  She 
seemed  a  bit  disappointed  that  he  was  not  more 
responsive. 

"Wouldn't  you  honor  him?"  she  demanded, 
27 


THE  LUCKY  PIECE 

"and  love  him,  too — a  boy  who  had  made  his  way 
alone?" 

"Oh,  why,  y-yes,  of  course — only,  you  know, 
I  hope  he  won't  spend  his  life  building  these 
things" — indicating  with  his  head  the  great 
building  which  they  were  now  passing,  the  gusts 
of  wind  tossing  them  and  making  it  impossible 
to  keep  the  umbrella  open. 

"Oh,  but  he's  to  build  railroads  and  great 
bridges — not  houses  at  all." 

"Urn — well,  that's  better.  By  the  way,  I  be- 
lieve you  go  to  the  Adirondacks  this  summer." 

"Yes,  Father  has  a  cottage — he  calls  it  a  camp 
— there.  That  is,  he  had.  He  says  he  supposes 
it's  a  wreck  by  this  time.  He  hasn't  seen  it,  you 
know,  for  years." 

"I  suppose  there  is  no  law  against  my  going  to 
the  Adirondacks,  too,  is  there?"  he  asked,  rather 
meekly.  "You  know,  I  should  like  to  see  that 
young  man  of  yours.  Maybe  I  might  get  some 
idea  of  what  I  ought  to  be  like  to  make  you 
proiid  of  me.  I  haven't  been  there  since  I  was  a 
boy,  but  I  remember  I  liked  it  then.  No  doubt 
I'd  like  it  this  year  if — if  that  young  man  is  there. 
I  suppose  I  could  find  a  place  to  stay  not  more 
than  twenty  miles  or  so  from  your  camp,  so  you 
28 


OUT   IN   THE   BLOWY   WEATHER 

could  send  word,  you  know,  any  time  you  were 
getting  proud  of  me." 

She  laughed — he  thought  a  little  nervously. 

"Why,  yes,"  she  admitted,  "there's  a  sort  of 
hotel  or  lodge  or  something,  not  far  away.  I 
know  that  from  Father.  He  said  we  might  have 
to  stay  there  awhile  until  our  camp  is  ready.  Oh, 
but  this  talk  of  the  mountains  makes  me  want  to 
be  there.  I  wish  I  were  starting  to-night !" 

It  seemed  a  curious  place  to  discuss  a  summer's 
vacation — under  a  big  wind-tossed  umbrella, 
along  Broadway  on  a  March  evening.  Per- 
haps the  incongruity  of  it  became  more  manifest 
with  the  girl's  last  remark,  for  her  companion 
chuckled. 

"Pretty  disagreeable  up  there  to-night,"  he  ob- 
jected ;  "besides,  I  thought  you  liked  all  this  a  few 
minutes  ago." 

"Yes,  oh,  yes ;  I  do,  of  course !  It's  all  so  big 
and  bright  and  wonderful,  though  after  all  there 
is  nothing  like  the  woods,  and  the  wind  and  rain 
in  the  hills." 

What  a  strange  creature  she  was,  he  thought. 

The  world  was  so  big  and  new  to  her,  she  was 

confused  and  disturbed  by  the  wonder  of  it  and 

its  possibilities.    She  longed  to  have  a  part  in  it 

29 


THE  LUCKY   PIECE 

all.  She  would  settle  down  presently  and  see 
things  as  they  were — not  as  she  thought  they 
were.  He  was  not  altogether  happy  over  the 
thought  of  the  young  man  who  had  made  his  way 
and  was  to  be  a  civil  engineer.  He  had  not  heard 
of  this  friend  before.  Doubtless  it  was  some  one 
she  had  known  in  childhood.  He  was  willing 
that  Constance  should  be  proud  of  him ;  that  was 
right  and  proper,  but  he  hoped  she  would  not  be 
too  proud  or  too  personal  in  her  interest.  Es- 
pecially if  the  young  man  was  handsome.  She 
was  so  likely  to  be  impulsive,  even  extreme,  where 
her  sympathies  were  concerned.  It  was  so  diffi- 
cult to  know  what  she  would  do  next. 

Constance,  meanwhile,  had  been  doing  some 
thinking  and  observing  on  her  own  account. 
Now  she  suddenly  burst  out :  "Did  you  notice  the 
headlines  on  the  news-stand  we  just  passed? 
The  bill  that  the  President  has  just  vetoed?  I 
don't  know  just  what  the  bill  is,  but  Father  is  so 
against  it.  He'll  think  the  President  is  fine  for 
vetoing  it!"  A  moment  later  she  burst  out 
eagerly,  "Oh,  why  don't  you  go  in  for  politics  and 
do  something  great  like  that  ?  A  politician  has  so 
many  opportunities.  I  forgot  all  about  politics." 

He  laughed  outright. 
30 


OUT   IN   THE  BLOWY   WEATHER 

"Try  to  forget  it  again,"  he  urged.  "Poli- 
ticians have  opportunities,  as  you  say;  but  some 
of  the  men  who  have  improved  what  seemed  the 
best  ones  have  gone  to  jail." 

"But  others  had  to  send  them  there.  You 
could  be  one  of  the  noble  ones  1" 

"Yes,  of  course,  but  you  see  I've  just  made  up 
my  mind  to  work  my  way  through  a  school  of 
technology  and  become  a  civil  engineer,  so  you'll 
be  proud  of  me — that  is,  after  I've  uncovered  a 
few  buried  cities  and  found  the  North  Pole.  I 
couldn't  do  those  things  so  well  if  I  went  into 
political  reform."  Then  they  laughed  again,  in- 
consequently,  and  so  light-hearted  she  seemed 
that  Frank  wondered  if  her  more  serious  moods 
were  not  for  the  most  part  make-believe,  to  tease 
him. 

At  Union  Square  they  crossed  by  Seventeenth 
Street  back  to  Fifth  Avenue.  When  they  had 
tacked  their  way  northward  for  a  dozen  or  more 
blocks,  the  cheer  of  an  elaborate  dining-room 
streamed  out  on  the  wet  pavement. 

"It's  a  good  while  till  dinner,"  Frank  observed. 
"If  your  stern  parents  would  not  mind,  I  should 
suggest  that  we  go  in  there  and  have,  let  me  see 
— something  hot  and  not  too  filling — I  think  an 


THE  LUCKY   PIECE 

omelette  souffle  would  be  rather  near  it,  don't 
you?" 

"Wonderful !"  she  agreed,  "and,  do  you  know, 
Father  said  the  other  day — of  course,  he's  a  gen- 
tle soul  and  too  confiding — but  I  heard  him  say 
that  you  were  one  person  he  was  perfectly  willing 
I  should  be  with,  anywhere.  I  don't  see  why,  un- 
less it  is  that  you  know  the  city  so  well." 

"Mr.  Deane's  judgment  is  not  to  be  lightly 
questioned,"  avowed  the  young  man,  as  they 
turned  in  the  direction  of  the  lights. 

"Besides,"  she  supplemented,  "I'm  so  fam- 
ished. I  should  never  be  able  to  wait  for  dinner. 
I  can  smell  that  omelette  now.  And  may  I  have 
pie — pumpkin  pie — just  one  piece?  You  know 
we  never  had  pie  abroad,  and  my  whole  child- 
hood was  measured  by  pumpkin  pies.  May  I 
have  just  a  small  piece?" 

Half  an  hour  later,  when  they  came  out  and 
again  made  their  way  toward  the  Deane  mansion, 
the  wind  had  died  and  the  rain  had  become  a 
mild  drizzle.  As  they  neared  the  entrance  of  her 
home  they  noticed  a  crouching  figure  on  the  lower 
step.  The  light  from  across  the  street  showed 
that  it  was  a  woman,  dressed  in  shabby  black, 
wearing  a  drabbled  hat,  decorated  with  a  few  mis- 
32 


OUT   IN   THE  BLOWY   WEATHER 

arable  flowers.  She  hardly  noticed  them,  and  her 
face  was  heavy  and  expressionless.  The  girl 
shrank  away  and  was  reluctant  to  enter. 

"It's  all  right,"  he  whispered  to  her.  "That 
is  the  Island  type.  She  wants  nothing  but  money. 
It's  a  chance  for  philanthropy  of  a  very  simple 
kind."  He  thrust  a  bill  into  the  poor  creature's 
hand.  The  girl's  eye  caught  a  glimpse  of  its  de- 
nomination. 

"Oh,"  she  protested,  "you  should  not  give  like 
that.  I've  heard  it  does  much  more  harm  than 
good." 

"I  know,"  he  assented.  "My  mother  says  so. 
But  I've  never  heard  that  she  or  anybody  else  has 
discovered  a  way  really  to  help  these  people." 

They  stood  watching  the  woman,  who  had 
muttered  something  doubtless  intended  for  thanks 
and  was  tottering  slowly  down  the  street.  The 
girl  held  fast  to  her  companion's  arm,  and  it 
seemed  to  him  that  she  drew  a  shade  closer  as 
they  mounted  the  steps. 

"I  suppose  it's  so,  about  doing  them  harm," 
she  said,  "and  I  don't  think  you  will  ever  lead  as 
a  philanthropist.  Still,  I'm  glad  you  gave  her  the 
money.  I  think  I  shall  let  you  stay  to  dinner  for 
that." 

33 


CHAPTER  III 

THE  DEEP  WOODS  OF  ENCHANTMENT 

THAT  green  which  is  known  only  to  June  lay 
upon  the  hills.  Algonquin,  Tahawus  and  White- 
face — but  a  little  before  grim  with  the  burden  of 
endless  years — rousing  from  their  long,  white 
sleep,  had  put  on,  for  the  millionth  time,  perhaps, 
the  fleeting  mantle  of  youth.  Spring  lay  on  the 
mountain  tops — summer  rilled  the  valleys,  with 
all  the  gradations  between. 

To  the  young  man  who  drove  the  hack  which 
runs  daily  between  Lake  Placid  and  Spruce 
Lodge  the  scenery  was  not  especially  interesting. 
He  had  driven  over  the  road  regularly  since 
earlier  in  the  month,  and  had  seen  the  hills  ac- 
quire glory  so  gradually  that  this  day  to  him  was 
only  as  other  days — a  bit  more  pleasant  than 
some,  but  hardly  more  exciting.  With  his  com- 
panion— his  one  passenger — it  was  a  different 
matter.  Mr.  Frank  Weatherby  had  occupied  a 
New  York  sleeper  the  night  before,  awaking  only 
at  daybreak  to  find  the  train  purring  heavily  up  a 
34 


DEEP  WOODS  OF  ENCHANTMENT 

long  Adirondack  grade — to  look  out  on  a  wet 
tangle  of  spruce,  and  fir,  and  hardwood,  and  vine, 
mingled  with  great  bowlders  and  fallen  logs,  and 
everywhere  the  emerald  moss,  set  agleam  where 
the  sunrise  filtered  through.  With  his  curtain 
raised  a  little,  he  had  watched  it  from  the  win- 
dow of  his  berth,  and  the  realization  had  grown 
upon  him  that  nowhere  else  in  the  world  was 
there  such  a  wood,  though  he  wondered  if  the 
marvel  and  enchantment  of  it  might  not  lie  in 
the  fact  that  somewhere  in  its  green  depths  he 
would  find  Constance  Deane. 

He  had  dressed  hurriedly  and  through  the  re- 
mainder of  the  distance  had  occupied  the  rear 
platform,  drinking  in  the  glory  of  it  all — the 
brisk,  life-giving  air — the  mystery  and  splendor 
of  the  forest.  He  had  been  here  once,  ten  years 
ago,  as  a  boy,  but  then  he  had  been  chiefly  con- 
cerned with  the  new  rod  he  had  brought  and  the 
days  of  sport  ahead.  He  had  seen  many  forests 
since  then,  and  the  wonder  of  this  one  spoke  to 
him  now  in  a  language  not  comprehended  in 
those  far-off  days. 

During  the  drive  across  the  open  farm  country 
which  lies  between  Lake  Placid  and  Spruce 
Lodge  he  had  confided  certain  of  his  impressions 
35 


THE  LUCKY  PIECE 

to  his  companion — a  pale-haired  theological  stu- 
dent, who  as  driver  of  the  Lodge  hack  was  com- 
bining a  measure  of  profit  with  a  summer's  vaca- 
tion. The  enthusiasm  of  his  passenger  made  the 
quiet  youth  responsive,  even  communicative, 
when  his  first  brief  diffidence  had  worn  away. 
He  had  been  awarded  this  employment  because 
of  a  previous  knowledge  acquired  on  his  father's 
farm  in  Pennsylvania.  A  number  of  his  fellow 
students  were  serving  as  waiters  in  the  Lake 
Placid  hotels.  When  pressed,  he  owned  that  his 
inclination  for  the  pulpit  had  not  been  in  the  na- 
ture of  a  definite  call.  He  had  considered  news- 
paper work  and  the  law.  A  maiden  aunt  had 
entered  into  his  problem.  She  had  been  willing 
to  supply  certain  funds  which  had  influenced  the 
clerical  decision.  Perhaps  it  was  just  as  well. 
Having  thus  established  his  identity,  he  pro- 
ceeded to  indicate  landmarks  of  special  interest, 
pointing  out  Whiteface,  Golden  and  Elephant's 
Back — also  Tahawus  and  Algonquin — calling  the 
last  two  Marcy  and  Mclntyre,  as  is  the  custom 
to-day.  The  snow  had  been  on  the  peaks,  he  said, 
almost  until  he  came.  It  must  have  looked  curi- 
ous, he  thought,  when  the  valleys  were  already 
green.  Then  they  drove  along  in  silence  for  a 
36 


DEEP   WOODS   OF   ENCHANTMENT 

distance — the  passive  youth  lightly  flicking  the 
horses  to  discourage  a  number  of  black  flies  that 
had  charged  from  a  clump  of  alder.  Frank,  su- 
premely content  in  the  glory  of  his  surroundings 
and  the  prospect  of  being  with  Constance  in  this 
fair  retreat,  did  not  find  need  for  many  words. 
The  student  likewise  seemed  inclined  to  reflect. 
His  passenger  was  first  to  rouse  himself. 

"Many  people  at  the  Lodge  yet?"  he  asked. 

"N-no — mostly  transients.  They  climb  Marcy 
and  Mclntyre  from  here.  It's  the  best  place  to 
start  from." 

"I  see.  I  climbed  Whiteface  myself  ten  years 
ago.  We  had  a  guide — an  old  chap  named  Law- 
less. My  mother  and  I  were  staying  at  Saranac 
and  she  let  me  go  with  a  party  from  there.  I 
thought  it  great  sport  then,  and  made  up  my  mind 
to  be  a  guide  when  I  grew  up.  I  don't  think  I'd 
like  it  so  well  now." 

"They  have  the  best  guides  at  the  Lodge," 
commented  the  driver.  "The  head  guide  there  is 
the  best  in  the  mountains.  This  is  his  first  year 
at  the  Lodge.  He  was  with  the  Adirondack  Club 
before." 

"I  suppose  it  couldn't  be  my  old  hero,  Law- 
less?" 

37 


THE  LUCKY   PIECE 

"No ;  this  is  a  young  man.    I  don't  just  remem- 
ber  his   last   name,   but   most   people   call   him 
Robin." 
'    "Um,  not  Robin  Hood,  I  hope." 

The  theological  student  shook  his  head.  The 
story  of  the  Sherwood  bandit  had  not  been  a  part 
of  his  education. 

"It  doesn't  sound  like  that,"  he  said.  "It's 
something  like  Forney,  or  Farham.  He's  a  stu- 
dent, too — a  civil  engineer — but  he  was  raised  in 
these  hills  and  has  been  guiding  since  he  was  a 
boy.  He's  done  it  every  summer  to  pay  his  way 
through  college.  Next  year  he  graduates,  and 
they  say  he's  the  best  in  the  school.  Of  course, 
guides  get  big  pay — as  much  as  three  dollars  a 
day,  some  of  them — besides  their  board." 

The  last  detail  did  not  interest  Mr.  Weatherby. 
He  was  suddenly  recalling  a  wet,  blowy  March 
evening  on  Broadway — himself  under  a  big  um- 
brella with  Constance  Deane.  She  was  speaking, 
and  he  could  recall  her  words  quite  plainly:  "I 
know  one  young  man  who  is  going  to  be  an 
engineer.  He  was  a  poor  boy — so  poor — and 
has  worked  his  way.  I  shall  see  him  this  sum- 
mer. You  don't  know  how  proud  I  shall  be  of 
him." 

38 


DEEP  WOODS  OF  ENCHANTMENT 

To  Frank  the  glory  of  the  hills  faded  a  little, 
and  the  progress  of  the  team  seemed  unduly  slow. 

"Suppose  we  move  up  a  bit,"  he  suggested  to 
the  gentle  youth  with  the  reins,  and  the  horses 
were  presently  splashing  through  a  shallow  pool 
left  by  recent  showers. 

"He's  a  very  strong  fellow,"  the  informant 
continued,  "and  handsome.  He's  going  to  marry 
the  daughter  of  the  man  who  owns  the  Lodge 
when  he  gets  started  as  an  engineer.  She's  a 
pretty  girl,  and  smart.  Her  mother's  dead,  and 
she's  her  father's  housekeeper.  She  teaches 
school  sometimes,  too.  They'll  make  a  fine 
match." 

The  glory  of  the  hills  renewed  itself,  and 
though  the  horses  had  dropped  once  more  into  a 
lazy  jog,  Frank  did  not  suggest  urging  them. 

"I  believe  there  is  a  young  lady  guest  at  the 
Lodge,"  he  ventured  a  little  later — a  wholly  un- 
necessary remark — he  having  received  a  letter 
from  Constance  on  her  arrival  there,  with  her 
parents,  less  than  a  week  before. 

The  youth  nodded. 

"Two,"  he  said.  "One  I  brought  over  yester- 
day— from  Utica,  I  think  she  was — and  another 
last  week,  from  New  York,  with  her  folks.  Their 
39 


THE  LUCKY  PIECE 

names  are  Deane,  and  they  own  a  camp  up  here. 
They're  staying  at  the  Lodge  till  it's  ready." 

"I  see ;  and  did  the  last  young  lady — the  fam- 
ily, I  mean — seem  to  know  any  one  at  the 
Lodge?" 

But  the  youth  could  not  say.  He  had  taken 
them  over  with  their  bags  and  trunks  and  had  not 
noticed  farther,  only  that  once  or  twice  since, 
when  he  had  arrived  with  the  mail,  the  young 
lady  had  come  in  from  the  woods  with  a  book 
and  a  basket  of  mushrooms,  most  of  which  he 
thought  to  be  toadstools,  and  poisonous.  Once — 
maybe  both  times — Robin  had  been  with  her — 
probably  engaged  as  a  guide.  Robin  would  be 
apt  to  know  about  mushrooms. 

Frank  assented  a  little  dubiously. 

"I  shouldn't  wonder  if  we'd  better  be  moving 
along,"  he  suggested.  "We  might  be  late  with 
that  mail." 

There  followed  another  period  of  silence  and 
increased  speed.  As  they  neared  the  North  Elba 
post-office — a  farmhouse  with  a  flower-garden 
in  front  of  it — the  youth  pointed  backward  to  a 
hill  with  a  flag-staff  on  it. 

"That  is  John  Brown's  grave,"  he  said. 

His  companion  looked  and  nodded. 
40 


DEEP   WOODS   OF   ENCHANTMENT 

"I  remember.  My  mother  and  I  made  a  pil- 
grimage to  it.  Poor  old  John.  This  is  still  a 
stage  road,  isn't  it?" 

"Yes,  but  we  leave  it  at  North  Elba.  It  turns 
off  there  for  Keene." 

At  the  fork  of  the  road  Frank  followed  the 
stage  road  with  his  eye,  recalling  his  mountain 
summer  of  ten  years  before. 

"I  know,  now,"  he  reflected  aloud.  "This  road 
goes  to  Keene,  and  on  to  Elizabeth  and  Westport. 
I  went  over  it  in  the  fall.  I  remember  the  moun- 
tains being  all  colors,  with  tips  of  snow  on  them." 
Suddenly  he  brought  his  hand  down  on  his  knee. 
"It's  just  come  to  me,"  he  said.  "Somewhere  be- 
tween here  and  Keene  there  was  a  little  girl  who 
had  berries  to  sell,  and  I  ran  back  up  a  long  hill 
and  gave  her  my  lucky  piece  for  them.  I  told  her 
to  keep  it  for  me  till  I  came  back.  That  was  ten 
years  ago.  I  never  went  back.  I  wonder  if  she 
has  it  still?" 

The  student  of  theology  shook  his  head.  It 
did  not  seem  likely.  Then  he  suggested  that,  of 
course,  she  would  be  a  good  deal  older  now — 
an  idea  which  did  not  seem  to  have  occurred  to 
Mr.  Weatherby. 

"Sure  enough,"  he  agreed,  "and  maybe  not 


THE  LUCKY   PIECE 

there.  I  suppose  you  don't  know  anybody  over 
that  way." 

The  driver  did  not.  During  the  few  weeks 
since  his  arrival  he  had  acquired  only  such  knowl- 
edge as  had  to  do  with  his  direct  line  of  travel. 

They  left  North  Elba  behind,  and  crossing  an- 
other open  stretch  of  country,  headed  straight  for 
the  mountains.  They  passed  a  red  farmhouse, 
and  brooks  in  which  Frank  thought  there  must  be 
trout.  Then  by  an  avenue  of  spring  leafage,  shot 
with  sunlight  and  sweet  with  the  smell  of  spruce 
and  deep  leaf  mold,  they  entered  the  great  forest 
where,  a  mile  or  so  beyond,  lay  the  Lodge. 

Frank's  heart  began  to  quicken,  though  not 
wholly  as  the  result  of  eagerness.  He  had  not 
written  Constance  that  he  was  coming  so  soon. 
Indeed,  in  her  letter  she  had  suggested  in  a  man- 
ner which  might  have  been  construed  as  a  com- 
mand that  if  he  intended  to  come  to  the  Adiron- 
dacks  at  all  this  summer  he  should  wait  until  they 
were  settled  in  their  camp.  But  Frank  had  dis- 
covered that  New  York  in  June  was  not  the  at- 
tractive place  he  had  considered  it  in  former  years. 
Also  that  the  thought  of  the  Adirondacks,  even 
the  very  word  itself,  had  acquired  a  certain 
charm.  To  desire  and  to  do  were  not  likely  to  be 
42 


DEEP  WOODS   OF  ENCHANTMENT 

very  widely  separated  with  a  young  man  of  his 
means  and  training,  and  he  had  left  for  Lake 
Placid  that  night. 

Yet  now  that  he  had  brought  surprise  to  the 
very  threshold,  as  it  were,  he  began  to  hesitate. 
Perhaps,  after  all,  Constance  might  not  be  over- 
joyed or  even  mildly  pleased  at  his  coming.  She 
had  seemed  a  bit  distant  before  her  departure, 
and  he  knew  how  hard  it  was  to  count  on  her  at 
times. 

"You  can  see  the  Lodge  from  that  bend,"  said 
his  companion,  presently,  pointing  with  his  whip. 

Then  almost  immediately  they  had  reached  the 
turn,  and  the  Lodge — a  great,  double-story  cabin 
of  spruce  logs,  with  wide  verandas — showed 
through  the  trees.  But  between  the  hack  and  the 
Lodge  were  two  figures — a  tall  young  man  in 
outing  dress,  carrying  a  basket,  and  a  tall  young 
woman  in  a  walking  skirt,  carrying  a  book.  They 
were  quite  close  together,  moving  toward  the 
Lodge.  They  seemed  to  be  talking  earnestly,  and 
did  not  at  first  notice  the  sound  of  wheels. 

"That's  them  now,"  whispered  the  young  man, 
forgetting  for  the  moment  his  scholastic  training. 
"That's  Robin  and  Miss  Deane,  with  the  book 
and  the  basket  of  toadstools." 

43 


THE  LUCKY  PIECE 

The  couple  ahead  stopped  just  then  and  turned. 
Frank  prepared  himself  for  the  worst. 

But  Mr.  Weatherby  would  seem  to  have  been 
unduly  alarmed.  As  he  stepped  from  the  vehicle 
Constance  came  forward  with  extended  hand. 

"You  are  good  to  surprise  us,"  she  was  say- 
ing, and  then,  a  moment  later,  "Mr.  Weatherby, 
this  is  Mr.  Robin  Farnham — a  friend  of  my 
childhood.  I  think  I  have  mentioned  him  to 
you." 

Whatever  momentary  hostility  Frank  Weath- 
erby may  have  cherished  for  Robin  Farnham  van- 
ished as  the  two  clasped  hands.  Frank  found 
himself  looking  into  a  countenance  at  once  manly, 
intellectual  and  handsome — the  sort  of  a  face  that 
men,  and  women,  too,  trust  on  sight.  And  then 
for  some  reason  there  flashed  again  across  his 
mind  a  vivid  picture  of  Constance  as  she  had 
looked  up  at  him  that  wet  night  under  the  um- 
brella, the  raindrops  glistening  on  her  cheek  and 
in  the  blowy  tangle  about  her  temples.  He  held 
Robin's  firm  hand  for  a  moment  in  his  rather  soft 
palm.  There  was  a  sort  of  magnetic  stimulus  in 
that  muscular  grip  and  hardened  flesh.  It  was 
so  evidently  the  hand  of  achievement,  Frank  was 
loath  to  let  it  go. 

44 


DEEP  WOODS  OF  ENCHANTMENT 

"You  are  in  some  way  familiar  to  me,"  he  said 
then.  "I  may  have  seen  you  when  I  was  up  this 
way  ten  years  ago.  I  suppose  you  do  not  recall 
anything  of  the  kind?" 

A  touch  of  color  showed  through  the  brown  of 
Robin's  cheek. 

"No,"  he  said;  "I  was  a  boy  of  eleven,  then, 
probably  in  the  field.  I  don't  think  you  saw  me. 
Those  were  the  days  when  I  knew  Miss  Deane. 
I  used  to  carry  baskets  of  green  corn  over  to  Mr. 
Deane's  camp.  If  you  had  been  up  this  way  dur- 
ing the  past  five  or  six  years  I  might  have  been 
your  guide.  Winters  I  have  attended  school." 

They  were  walking  slowly  as  they  talked,  fol- 
lowing the  hack  toward  the  Lodge.  Constance 
took  up  the  tale  at  this  point,  her  cheeks  also 
flushing  a  little  as  she  spoke. 

"He  had  to  work  very  hard,"  she  said.  "He 
had  to  raise  the  corn  and  then  carry  it  every  day 
— miles  and  miles.  Then  he  used  to  make  toy 
boats  and  sail  them  for  me  in  the  brook,  and  a 
playhouse,  and  whatever  I  wanted.  Of  course, 
I  did  not  consider  that  I  was  taking  his  time,  or 
how  hard  it  all  was  for  him." 

"Miss  Deane  has  given  up  little  boats  and  play- 
houses for  the  science  of  mycology,"  Robin  put 
45 


THE  LUCKY  PIECE 

in,  rather  nervously,  as  one  anxious  to  change  the 
subject. 

Frank  glanced  at  the  volume  he  had  appro- 
priated— a  treatise  on  certain  toadstools,  edible 
and  otherwise. 

"I  have  heard  already  of  your  new  employ- 
ment, or,  at  least,  diversion,"  he  said.  "The 
young  man  who  brought  me  over  told  me  that 
a  young  lady  had  been  bringing  baskets  of  suspi- 
cious fungi  to  the  Lodge.  From  what  he  said  I 
judged  that  he  considered  it  a  dangerous  occupa- 
tion." 

"That  was  Mr.  Meelie,"  laughed  Constance. 
"I  have  been  wondering  why  Mr.  Meelie  avoided 
me.  I  can  see  now  that  he  was  afraid  I  would 
poison  him.  You  must  meet  Miss  Carroway, 
too,"  she  ran  on.  "I  mean  you  will  meet  her. 
She  is  a  very  estimable  lady  from  Connecticut 
who  has  a  nephew  in  the  electric  works  at  Haver- 
ford  ;  also  the  asthma,  which  she  is  up  here  to  get 
rid  of.  She  is  at  the  Lodge  for  the  summer,  and 
is  already  the  general  minister  of  affairs  at  large 
and  in  particular.  Among  other  things,  she 
warns  me  daily  that  if  I  persist  in  eating  some  of 
the  specimens  I  bring  home,  I  shall  presently  die 
with  great  violence  and  suddenness.  She  is  con- 
46 


DEEP   WOODS   OF  ENCHANTMENT 

vinced  that  there  is  just  one  kind  of  mushroom, 
and  that  it  doesn't  grow  in  the  woods.  She  has 
no  faith  in  books.  Her  chief  talent  lies  in  pro- 
moting harmless  evening  entertainments.  You 
will  have  to  take  part  in  them." 

Frank  had  opened  the  book  and  had  been 
studying  some  of  the  colored  plates  while  Con- 
stance talked. 

"I  don't  know  that  I  blame  your  friends,"  he 
said,  half  seriously.  "Some  of  these  look  pretty 
dangerous  to  the  casual  observer." 

"But  I've  been  studying  that  book  for  weeks," 
protested  Constance,  "long  before  we  came  here. 
By  and  by  I'm  going  to  join  the  Mycological  So- 
ciety and  try  to  be  one  of  its  useful  members." 

"I  suppose  you  have  to  eat  most  of  these  be- 
fore you  are  eligible?"  commented  Frank,  still 
fascinated  by  the  bright  pictures. 

"Not  at  all.  Some  of  them  are  quite  deadly, 
but  one  ought  to  be  able  to  distinguish  most  of 
the  commoner  species,  and  be  willing  to  trust  his 
knowledge." 

"To  back  one's  judgment  with  one's  life,  as  it 

were.    Well,  that's  one  sort  of  bravery,  no  doubt. 

Tell  me,  please,  how  many  of  these  gayly  spotted 

ones  you  have  eaten  and  still  live  to  tell  the  tale?" 

47 


CHAPTER   IV 

A  BRIEF  LECTURE  AND  SOME  INTRODUCTIONS 

THE  outside  of  Spruce  Lodge  suggested  to 
Frank  the  Anglo-Saxon  castle  of  five  or  six  hun- 
dred years  ago,  though  it  was  probably  better 
constructed  than  most  of  the  castles  of  that  early 
day.  It  was  really  an  immense  affair,  and  there 
were  certain  turrets  and  a  tower  which  carried 
out  the  feudal  idea.  Its  builder,  John  Morrison, 
had  been  a  faithful  reader  of  Scott,  and  the  archi- 
tecture of  the  Lodge  had  in  some  manner  been 
an  expression  of  his  romantic  inclination.  Frank 
thought,  however,  that  the  feudal  Saxon  might 
not  have  had  the  long  veranda  facing  the  little 
jewel  of  a  lake,  where  were  mirrored  the  moun- 
tains that  hemmed  it  in.  With  Constance  he  sat 
on  the  comfortable  steps,  looking  through  the  tall 
spruces  at  the  water  or  at  mountain  peaks  that 
seemed  so  near  the  blue  that  one  might  step  from 
them  into  the  cloudland  of  an  undiscovered  coun- 
try. 

48 


A  BRIEF  LECTURE 

No  one  was  about  for  the  moment,  the  guests 
having  collected  in  the  office  for  the  distribution 
of  the  daily  mail.  Robin  had  gone,  too,  striding 
away  toward  a  smaller  cabin  where  the  guides 
kept  their  paraphernalia.  Frank  said : 

"You  don't  know  how  glad  I  am  to  be  here 
with  you  in  this  wonderful  place,  Conny.  I  have 
never  seen  anything  so  splendid  as  this  forest, 
and  I  was  simply  desperate  in  town  as  soon  as 
you  were  gone." 

She  had  decided  not  to  let  him  call  her  that 
again,  but  concluded  to  overlook  this  offense.  She 
began  arranging  the  contents  of  her  basket  on 
the  step  beside  her — a  gay  assortment  of  toad- 
stools gathered  during  her  morning  walk. 

"You  see  what  /  have  been  doing,"  she  said. 
"I  don't  suppose  it  will  interest  you  in  the  least, 
but  to  me  it  is  a  fascinating  study.  Perhaps  if 
I  pursue  it  I  may  contribute  something  to  the 
world's  knowledge  and  to  its  food  supply." 

Frank  regarded  the  variegated  array  with 
some  solemnity. 

"I  hope,  Conny,  you  don't  mean  to  eat  any  of 
those,"  he  said. 

"Probably  not;  but  see. how  beautiful  they 
are." 

49 


THE  LUCKY   PIECE 

They  were  indeed  beautiful,  for  no  spot  is 
more  rich  in  fungi  of  varied  hues  than  the  Adi- 
rondack woods.  There  were  specimens  ranging 
from  pale  to  white,  from  cream  to  lemon  yellow 
— pink  that  blended  into  shades  of  red  and  scar- 
let— gray  that  deepened  to  blue  and  even  purple 
— numerous  shades  of  buff  and  brown,  and  some 
of  the  mottled  coloring.  Some  were  large,  almost 
gigantic;  some  tiny  ones  were  like  bits  of  ivory 
or  coral.  Frank  evinced  artistic  enthusiasm,  but 
a  certain  gastronomic  reserve. 

"Wonderful!"  he  said.  "I  did  not  suppose 
there  were  such  mushrooms  in  the  world — so 
beautiful.  I  know  now  what  the  line  means 
which  says,  'How  beautiful  is  death.'  " 

There  was  a  little  commotion  just  then  at  the 
doorway  of  the  Lodge,  and  a  group  of  guests — 
some  with  letters,  others  with  looks  of  resigna- 
tion or  disappointment — appeared  on  the  veran- 
da. From  among  them,  Mrs.  Deane,  a  rather 
frail,  nervous  woman,  hurried  toward  Mr.  Weath- 
erby  with  evident  pleasure.  She  had  been  ex- 
pecting him,  she  declared,  though  Constance  had 
insisted  that  he  would  think  twice  before  he 
started  once  for  that  forest  isolation.  They  would 
be  in  their  own  quarters  in  a  few  days,  and  it 
50 


A  BRIEF  LECTURE 

would  be  just  a  pleasant  walk  over  there.  There 
were  no  hard  hills  to  climb.  Mr.  Deane  walked 
over  twice  a  day.  He  was  there  now,  overseeing 
repairs.  The  workmen  were  very  difficult. 

"But  there  are  some  hills,  Mamma,"  interposed 
Constance — "little  ones.  Perhaps  Mr.Weatherby 
won't  care  to  climb  at  all.  He  has  already  de- 
clared against  my  mushrooms.  He  said  some- 
thing just  now  about  their  fatal  beauty — I  be- 
lieve that  was  it.  He's  like  all  the  rest  of  you — 
opposed  to  the  cause  of  science." 

Mrs.  Deane  regarded  the  young  man  appeal- 
ingly. 

"Try  to  reason  with  her,"  she  said  nervously. 
"Perhaps  she'll  listen  to  you.  She  never  will  to 
me.  I  tell  her  every  day  that  she  will  poison  her- 
self. She's  always  tasting  of  new  kinds.  She's 
persuaded  me  to  eat  some  of  those  she  had  cooked, 
and  I've  sent  to  New  York  for  every  known  anti- 
dote for  mushroom  poisoning.  It's  all  right,  per- 
haps, to  study  them  and  collect  them,  but  when  it 
comes  to  eating  them  to  prove  that  the  book  is 
right  about  their  being  harmless,  it  seems  like 
flying  in  the  face  of  Providence.  Besides,  Con- 
stance is  careless." 

"I  remember  her  telling  me,  as  reason  for  not 
5' 


THE  LUCKY  PIECE 

wanting  to  be  a  doctor,  something  about  giving 
you  the  wrong  medicine  last  winter." 

"She  did — some  old  liniment — I  can  taste  the 
stuff  yet.  Constance,  I  do  really  think  it's  sinful 
for  you  to  meddle  with  such  uncertain  subjects. 
Just  think  of  eating  any  of  those  gaudy  things. 
Constance !  How  can  you  ?" 

Constance  patted  the  nervous  little  lady  on  the 
cheek. 

"Be  comforted,"  she  said.  "I  am  not  going  to 
eat  these.  I  brought  them  for  study.  Most  of 
them  are  harmless  enough,  I  believe,  but  they  are 
of  a  kind  that  even  experts  are  not  always  sure 
of.  They  are  called  Boleti — almost  the  first  we 
have  found.  I  have  laid  them  out  here  for  dis- 
play, just  as  the  lecturer  did  last  week  at  Lake 
Placid." 

Miss  Deane  selected  one  of  the  brightly  colored 
specimens. 

"This,"  she  began,  with  mock  gravity  and  a 
professional  air,  "is  a  Boletus — known  as  Boletus 
speciosus — that  is,  I  think  it  is."  She  opened  the 
book  and  ran  hastily  over  the  leaves.  "Yes,  spe- 
ciosus — either  that  or  the  bicolor — I  can't  be  cer- 
tain just  which." 

"There,  Constance,"  interrupted  Mrs.  Deane, 
52 


A  BRIEF  LECTURE 

"you  confess,  yourself,  you  can't  tell  the  differ- 
ence. Now,  how  are  we  going  to  know  when  we 
are  being  poisoned?  We  ate  some  last  night. 
Perhaps  they  were  deadly  poison — how  can  we 
know  ?" 

"Be  comforted,  Mamma;  we  are  still  here." 

"But  perhaps  the  poison  hasn't  begun  to  work 
yet." 

"It  should  have  done  so,  according  to  the  best 
authorities,  some  hours  ago.  I  have  been  keeping 
watch  of  the  time." 

Mrs.  Deane  groaned. 

"The  best  authorities?  Oh,  dear — oh,  dear! 
Are  there  really  any  authorities  in  this  awful 
business?  And  she  has  been  watching  the  time 
for  the  poison  to  work — think  of  it !" 

A  little  group  of  guests  collected  to  hear  the 
impromptu  discussion.  Frank,  half  reclining  on 
the  veranda  steps,  ran  his  eye  over  the  assembly. 
For  the  most  part  they  seemed  genuine  seekers 
after  recreation  and  rest  in  this  deep  forest  isola- 
tion. There  were  brain-workers  among  them — 
painters  and  writer  folk.  Some  of  the  faces  Frank 
thought  he  recognized.  In  the  foreground  was 
a  rather  large  woman  of  the  New  England  village 
type.  She  stood  firmly  on  her  feet,  and  had  a 
53 


THE  LUCKY  PIECE 

wide,  square  face,  about  which  the  scanty  gray 
locks  were  tightly  curled.  She  moved  closer 
now,  and  leaning  forward,  spoke  with  judicial 
deliberation. 

"Them's  tudstools!"  she  said — a  decision  evi- 
dently intended  to  be  final.  She  adjusted  her 
glasses  a  bit  more  carefully  and  bent  closer  to  the 
gay  collection.  "The'  ain't  a  single  one  of  'em  a 
mushroom,"  she  proceeded.  "We  used  to  have 
'em  grow  in  our  paster,  an'  my  little  nephew, 
Charlie,  that  I  brought  up  by  hand  and  is  now  in 
the  electric  works  down  to  Haverford,  he  used  to 
gather  'em,  an'  they  wa'n't  like  them  at  all." 

A  ripple  of  appreciation  ran  through  the  group, 
and  others  drew  near  to  inspect  the  fungi.  Con- 
stance felt  it  necessary  to  present  Frank  to  those 
nearest,  whom  she  knew.  He  arose  to  make  ac- 
knowledgments. With  the  old  lady,  whose  name, 
it  appeared,  was  Miss  Carroway,  he  shook  hands. 
She  regarded  him  searchingly. 

"You're  some  taller  than  my  Charlie,"  she  said, 
and  added,  "I  hope  you  don't  intend  to  eat  them 
tudstools,  do  you?  Charlie  wouldn't  a  et  one 
o*  them  kind  fer  a  thousand  dollars.  He  knew 
the  reel  kind  that  grows  in  the  medders  an' 
pasters." 

54 


A   BRIEF   LECTURE 

Constance  took  one  of  Miss  Carroway's  hands 
and  gave  it  a  friendly  squeeze. 

"You  are  spoiling  my  lecture,"  she  laughed, 
"and  aiding  Mamma  in  discrediting  me  before  the 
world.  I  will  tell  you  the  truth  about  mush- 
rooms. Not  the  whole  truth^v^ut  an  important 
one.  All  toadstools  are  mushrooms  and  all  mush- 
rooms are  toadstools.  A  few  kinds  are  poison- 
ous— not  many.  Most  of  them  are  good  to  eat. 
The  only  difficulty  lies  in  telling  the  poison  ones." 

Miss  Carroway  appeared  interested,  but  incred- 
ulous. Constance  continued. 

"The  sort  your  Charlie  used  to  gather  was  the 
Agaricus  Campestris,  or  meadow  mushroom — 
one  of  the  commonest  and  best.  It  has  gills  un- 
derneath— not  pores,  like  this  one.  The  gills  are 
like  little  leaves  and  hold  the  spores,  or  seed  as  we 
might  call  it.  The  pores  of  this  Boletus  do  the 
same  thing.  You  see  they  are  bright  yellow, 
while  the  top  is  purple-red.  The  stem  is  yellow, 
too.  Now,  watch!" 

She  broke  the  top  of  the  Boletus  in  two  parts 
— the  audience  pressing  closer  to  see.  The  flesh 
within  was  lemon  color,  but  almost  instantly, 
with  exposure  to  the  air,  began  to  change,  and 
was  presently  a  dark  blue.  Murmurs  of  wonder 
55 


THE  LUCKY  PIECE 

ran  through  the  group.    They  had  not  seen  this 
marvel  before. 

"Bravo !"  murmured  Frank.  "You  are  begin- 
ning to  score." 

"Many  of  the  Boleti  do  that,"  Constance  re- 
sumed. "Some/uf  them  are  very  bad  tasting, 
even  when  harmless.  Some  are  poisonous.  One 
of  them,  the  Sat  anus,  is  regarded  as  deadly.  I 
don't  think  this  is  one  of  them,  but  I  shall  not 
insist  on  Miss  Carroway  and  the  rest  of  you  eat- 
ing it." 

Miss  Carroway  sent  a  startled  glance  at  the 
lecturer  and  sweepingly  included  the  assembled 
group. 

"Eat  it!"  she  exclaimed.  "Eat  that?  Well, 
I  sh'd  think  not!  I  wouldn't  eat  that,  ner  let 
any  o'  my  folks  eat  it,  fer  no  money !" 

There  was  mirth  among  the  audience.  A 
young  mountain  climber  in  a  moment  of  reck- 
lessness avowed  his  faith  by  declaring  that  upon 
Miss  Deane's  recommendation  he  would  eat  the 
whole  assortment  for  two  dollars. 

"You'd  better  make  it  enough  for  funeral  ex- 
penses," commented  Miss  Carroway;  whereupon 
the  discussion  became  general  and  hilarious,  and 
the  extempore  lecture  ceased. 
56 


A  BRIEF  LECTURE 

"You  see,"  Constance  said  to  Frank,  "I  cannot 
claim  serious  attention,  even  upon  so  vital  a  sub- 
ject as  the  food  supply." 

"But  you  certainly  entertained  them,  and  I,  for 
one,  have  a  growing  respect  for  your  knowledge." 
Then,  rising,  he  added,  "Speaking  of  food  re- 
minds me  that  you  probably  have  some  sort  of 
midday  refreshment  here,  and  that  I  would  better 
arrange  for  accommodations  and  make  myself 
presentable.  By  the  way,  Constance,"  lowering 
his  voice,  "I  saw  a  striking-looking  girl  on  the 
veranda  as  we  were  approaching  the  house  a 
while  ago.  I  don't  think  you  noticed  her,  but  she 
had  black  eyes  and  a  face  like  an  Indian  princess. 
She  came  out  for  a  moment  again,  while  you 
were  talking.  I  thought  she  rather  looked  as  if 
she  belonged  here,  but  she  couldn't  have  been  a 
servant." 

They  had  taken  a  little  turn  down  the  long 
veranda,  and  Constance  waited  until  they  were 
well  out  of  earshot  before  she  said : 

"You  are  perfectly  right — she  could  not.  She 
is  the  daughter  of  Mr.  Morrison,  who  owns  the 
Lodge — Edith  Morrison — her  father's  house- 
keeper. I  shall  present  you  at  the  first  opportu- 
nity so  that  you  may  lose  no  time  falling  in  love 
57 


THE  LUCKY  PIECE 

with  her.  It  will  do  you  no  good,  though,  for 
she  is  going  to  marry  Robin  Farnham.  The  wed- 
ding will  not  take  place,  of  course,  until  Robin  is 
making  his  way,  but  it  is  all  settled,  and  they  are 
both  very  happy." 

"And  quite  properly,"  commented  Frank  with 
enthusiasm.  "I  heard  something  about  it  com- 
ing over.  Mr.  Meelie  told  me.  He  said  they 
were  a  handsome  pair.  I  fully  agree  with  him." 
The  young  man  smiled  down  at  his  compan- 
ion and  added:  "Do  you  know,  Conny,  if  that 
young  man  Farnham  were  unencumbered,  I 
might  expect  you  to  do  some  falling  in  love, 
yourself." 

The  girl  laughed,  rather  more  than  seemed 
necessary,  Frank  thought,  and  an  added  touch  of 
color  came  into  her  cheeks. 

"I  did  that  years  ago,"  she  owned.  "I  think 
as  much  of  Robin  already  as  I  ever  could."  Then, 
less  lightly,  "Besides,  I  should  not  like  to  be  a 
rival  of  Edith  Morrison's.  She  is  a  mountain 
girl,  with  rather  primitive  ideas.  I  do  not  mean 
that  she  is  in  any  sense  a  savage  or  even  uncul- 
tured. Far  from  it.  Her  father  is  a  well-read 
man  for  his  opportunities.  They  have  a  good 
many  books  here,  and  Edith  has  learned  the  most 

58 


A  BRIEF  LECTURE 

of  them  by  heart.  Last  winter  she  taught  school. 
But  she  has  the  mountains  in  her  blood,  and  in 
that  black  hair  and  those  eyes  of  hers.  Only,  of 
course,  you  do  not  quite  know  what  that  means. 
The  mountains  are  fierce,  untamed,  elemental — 
like  the  sea.  Such  things  get  into  one's  blood  and 
never  entirely  go  away.  Of  course,  you  don't 
quite  understand." 

Regarding  her  curiously,  Frank  said : 

"I  remember  your  own  hunger  for  the  moun- 
tains, even  in  March.  One  might  almost  think 
you  native  to  them,  yourself." 

"My  love  for  them  makes  me  understand,"  she 
said,  after  a  pause;  then  in  lighter  tone  added, 
"and  I  should  not  wish  to  get  in  Edith  Morrison's 
way,  especially  where  it  related  to  Robin  Farn- 
ham." 

"By  which  same  token  I  shall  avoid  getting  in 
Robin  Farnham's  way,"  Frank  said,  as  they  en- 
tered the  Lodge  hall — a  wide  room,  which  in 
some  measure  carried  out  the  Anglo-Saxon  feu- 
dal idea.  The  floor  was  strewn  with  skins,  the 
dark  walls  of  unfinished  wood  were  hung  with 
antlers  and  other  trophies  of  the  chase.  At  the 
farther  end  was  a  deep  stone  fireplace,  and  above 
it  the  mounted  head  of  a  wild  boar. 
59 


THE  LUCKY   PIECE 

"You  see,"  murmured  Constance,  "being 
brought  up  among  these  things  and  in  the  life 
that  goes  with  them,  one  is  apt  to  imbibe  a  good 
deal  of  nature  and  a  number  of  elementary  ideas, 
in  spite  of  books." 

A  door  by  the  wide  fireplace  opened  just  then, 
and  a  girl  with  jetty  hair  and  glowing  black 
eyes — slender  and  straight  as  a  young  birch — 
came  toward  them  with  step  as  lithe  and  as  light 
as  an  Indian's.  There  was  something  of  the  type, 
too,  in  her  features.  Perhaps  in  a  former  genera- 
tion a  strain  of  the  native  American  blood  had 
mingled  and  blended  with  the  fairer  flow  of  the 
new  possessors.  Constance  Deane  went  forward 
to  meet  her. 

"Miss  Morrison,"  she  said  cordially,  "this  is 
Mr.  Weatherby,  of  New  York — a  friend  of 
ours." 

The  girl  took  Frank's  extended  hand  heartily. 
Indeed,  it  seemed  to  the  young  man  that  there 
was  rather  more  warmth  in  her  welcome  than  the 
occasion  warranted.  Her  face,  too,  conveyed  a 
certain  gratification  in  his  arrival — almost  as  if 
here  were  an  expected  friend.  He  could  not  help 
wondering  if  this  was  her  usual  manner  of  greet- 
ing— perhaps  due  to  the  primitive  life  she  had 
60 


A  BRIEF  LECTURE 

led — the  untrammeled  freedom  of  the  hills.    But 
Constance,  when  she  had  passed  them,  said : 

"I  think  you  are  marked  for  especial  favor. 
Perhaps,  after  all,  Robin  is  to  have  a  rival." 

Yet  not  all  is  to  be  read  upon  the  surface,  even 
when  one  is  so  unskilled  at  dissembling  as  Edith 
Morrison.  We  may  see  signs,  but  we  may  not 
always  translate  their  meaning.  Her  love  affair 
had  been  one  of  long  standing,  begun  when  Robin 
had  guided  his  first  party  over  Marcy  to  the 
Lodge,  then  just  built — herself  a  girl  of  less  than 
a  dozen  years,  trying  to  take  a  dead  mother's 
place.  How  many  times  since  then  he  had  passed 
to  and  fro,  with  tourists  in  summer  and  hunting 
parties  in  winter.  Often  during  fierce  storms 
he  had  stayed  at  the  Lodge  for  a  week  or  more — 
gathered  with  her  father  and  herself  before  the 
great  log  fire  in  the  hall  while  the  winds  howled 
and  the  drifts  banked  up  against  the  windows, 
gleaning  from  the  Lodge  library  a  knowledge  of 
such  things  as  books  can  teach — history,  science 
and  the  outside  world.  Then  had  come  the  time 
when  he  had  decided  on  a  profession,  when,  with 
his  hoarded  earnings  and  such  employment  as  he 
could  find  in  the  college  town,  he  had  begun  his 
61 


THE  LUCKY  PIECE 

course  in  a  school  of  engineering.  The  moun- 
tain winters  without  Robin  had  been  lonely  ones, 
but  with  her  father  she  had  devoted  them  to 
study,  that  she  might  not  be  left  behind,  and  had 
taken  the  little  school  at  last  on  the  North  Elba 
road  in  order  to  feel  something  of  the  independ- 
ence which  Robin  knew.  In  this,  the  last  sum- 
mer of  his  mountain  life,  he  had  come  to  her 
father  as  chief  guide,  mainly  that  they  might  have 
more  opportunity  to  perfect  their  plans  for  the 
years  ahead.  All  the  trails  carried  their  story, 
and  though  young  men  still  fell  in  love  with 
Edith  Morrison  and  maids  with  Robin  Farnham, 
no  moment  of  distrust  had  ever  entered  in. 

But  there  would  appear  to  be  some  fate  which 
does  not  fail  to  justify  the  old  adage  concerning 
true  love.  With  the  arrival  of  Constance  Deane 
at  the  Lodge,  it  became  clear  to  Edith  that  there 
had  been  some  curious  change  in  Robin.  It  was 
not  that  he  became  in  the  least  degree  indifferent 
— if  anything  he  had  been  more  devoted  than 
before.  He  made  it  a  point  to  be  especially  con- 
siderate and  attentive  when  Miss  Deane  was  pres- 
ent— and  in  this  itself  there  lay  a  difference.  No 
other  guest  had  ever  affected  his  bearing  toward 
her,  one  way  or  the  other.  Edith  remembered, 
62 


A  BRIEF  LECTURE 

of  course,  that  he  had  known  the  Deanes,  long  be- 
fore, when  the  Lodge  was  not  yet  built.  Like 
Constance,  she  had  only  been  a  little  girl  then, 
her  home  somewhere  beyond  the  mountains 
where  she  had  never  heard  of  Robin.  Yet  her 
intuition  told  her  that  the  fact  of  a  long  ago  ac- 
quaintance between  a  child  of  wealthy  parents 
and  the  farm  boy  who  had  sold  them  produce  and 
built  toy  boats  for  the  little  girl  could  not  have 
caused  this  difference  now.  It  was  nothing  that 
Constance  had  engaged  Robin  to  guide  her  about 
the  woods  and  carry  her  book  or  her  basket  of 
specimens.  Edith  had  been  accustomed  to  all 
that,  but  this  time  there  was  a  different  attitude 
between  guide  and  guest — something  so  subtle 
that  it  could  hardly  be  put  into  words,  yet  wholly 
evident  to  the  eyes  of  love.  Half  unconsciously, 
at  first,  Edith  revolved  the  problem  in  her  mind, 
trying  to  locate  the  cause  of  her  impression. 
When  next  she  saw  them  alone  together,  she 
strove  to  convince  herself  that  it  was  nothing, 
after  all.  The  very  effort  had  made  her  the  more 
conscious  of  a  reality. 

Now  had  come  the  third  time — to-day — the 
moment  before  Frank  Weatherby's  arrival.  They 
were  approaching  the  house  and  did  not  see  her, 

63 


THE  LUCKY  PIECE 

while  she  had  lost  not  a  detail  of  the  scene.  Rob- 
in's very  carriage — and  hers — the  turn  of  a  face, 
the  manner  of  a  word  she  could  not  hear,  all 
spoke  of  a  certain  tenderness,  an  understanding, 
a  sort  of  ownership,  it  seemed — none  the  less  evi- 
dent because,  perhaps,  they  themselves  were  all 
unconscious  of  it.  The  mountain  girl  remarked 
the  beauty  of  that  other  one  and  mentally  com- 
pared it  with  her  own.  This  girl  was  taller  than 
she,  and  fairer.  Her  face  was  richer  in  its  color- 
ing— she  carried  herself  like  one  of  the  noble 
ladies  in  the  books.  Oh,  they  were  a  handsome 
pair — and  not  unlike,  she  thought.  Not  that  they 
resembled,  yet  something  there  was  common  to 
both.  It  must  be  that  noble  carriage  of  which  she 
had  been  always  so  proud  in  Robin.  There  swept 
across  her  mental  vision  a  splendid  and  heart- 
sickening  picture  of  Robin  going  out  into  the 
world  with  this  rich,  cultured  girl,  and  not  her- 
self, his  wife.  The  Deanes  were  not  pretentious 
people,  and  there  was  wealth  enough  already. 
They  might  well  be  proud  of  Robin.  Edith  cher- 
ished no  personal  bitterness  toward  either  Con- 
stance or  Robin — not  yet.  Neither  did  she  real- 
ize to  what  lengths  her  impetuous,  untrained  na- 
ture might  carry  her,  if  really  aroused.  Her  only 
64 


A   BRIEF   LECTURE 

conscious  conclusion  thus  far  was  that  Robin  and 
Constance,  without  knowing  it  themselves,  were 
drifting  into  a  dangerous  current,  and  that  this 
new  arrival  might  become  a  guide  back  to  safety. 
Between  Frank  Weatherby  and  herself  there  was 
the  bond  of  a  common  cause. 


CHAPTER   V 

A  FLOWER  ON  A  MOUNTAIN  TOP 

PROSPEROUS  days  came  to  the  Lodge.  Hospi- 
table John  Morrison  had  found  a  calling  suited  to 
his  gifts  when  he  came  across  the  mountain  and 
built  the  big  log  tavern  at  the  foot  of  Mclntyre. 
With  July,  guests  multiplied,  and  for  those  whose 
duty  it  was  to  provide  entertainment  the  problem 
became  definite  and  practical.  Edith  Morrison 
found  her  duties  each  day  heavier  and  Robin 
Farnham  was  seldom  unemployed.  Usually  he 
was  away  with  his  party  by  daybreak  and  did  not 
return  until  after  nightfall.  Wherever  might  lie 
his  inclination  there  would  seem  to  be  little  time 
for  love  making  in  such  a  season. 

By  the  middle  of  the  month  the  Deanes  had 
taken  possession  of  their  camp  on  the  west  branch 
of  the  Au  Sable,  having  made  it  habitable  with  a 
consignment  of  summer  furnishings  from  New 
York,  and  through  the  united  efforts  of  some  haTf 
dozen  mountain  carpenters,  urged  in  their  delib- 
66 


A  FLOWER  ON  A  MOUNTAIN   TOP 

erate  labors  by  the  owner,  Israel  Deane,  an  ener- 
getic New  Englander  who  had  begun  life  a  pen- 
niless orphan  and  had  become  chief  stockholder 
in  no  less  than  three  commercial  enterprises  on 
lower  Broadway. 

With  the  removal  of  the  Deanes  Mr.  Weath- 
erby  also  became  less  in  evidence  at  the  Lodge. 
The  walk  between  the  Lodge  and  the  camp  was  to 
him  a  way  of  enchantment.  He  had  been  always 
a  poet  at  heart,  and  this  wonderful  forest  reawak- 
ened old  dreams  and  hopes  and  fancies  which  he 
had  put  away  for  the  immediate  and  gayer  things 
of  life,  hardly  more  substantial  and  far  less  real. 
To  him  this  was  a  veritable  magic  wood — the 
habitation  of  necromancy — where  robber  bands 
of  old  might  lurk ;  where  knights  in  silver  armor 
might  do  battle;  where  huntsmen  in  gold  and 
green  might  ride,  the  vanished  court  of  some 
forgotten  king. 

And  at  the  end  of  the  way  there  was  always 
the  princess — a  princess  that  lived  and  moved, 
and  yet,  he  thought,  was  not  wholly  awake — at 
least  not  to  the  reality  of  his  devotion  to  her,  or, 
being  so,  did  not  care,  save  to  test  it  at  unseemly 
times  and  in  unusual  ways.  Frank  was  quite 
sure  that  he  loved  Constance.  He  was  certain 


THE  LUCKY  PIECE 

that  he  had  never  cared  so  much  for  anything  in 
the  world  before,  and  that  if  there  was  a  real 
need  he  would  make  any  sacrifice  at  her  com- 
mand. Only  he  did  not  quite  comprehend  why 
she  was  not  willing  to  put  by  all  stress  and  effort 
to  become  simply  a  part  of  this  luminous  sum- 
mer time,  when  to  him  it  was  so  good  to  rest  by 
the  brook  and  listen  to  her  voice  following  some 
old  tale,  or  to  drift  in  a  boat  about  the  lake  shore, 
finding  a  quaint  interest  in  odd  nooks  and  ro- 
mantic corners  or  in  dreaming  idle  dreams. 

Indeed,  the  Lodge  saw  him  little.  Most  days 
he  did  not  appear  between  breakfast  and  dinner 
time.  Often  he  did  not  return  even  for  that  func- 
tion. Yet  sometimes  it  happened  that  with  Con- 
stance he  brought  up  there  about  mail  time,  and 
on  these  occasions  they  were  likely  to  remain  for 
luncheon.  Constance  had  by  no  means  given  up 
her  nature  study,  and  these  visits  usually  resulted 
from  the  discovery  of  some  especial  delicacy  of 
the  woods  which,  out  of  consideration  for  her 
mother's  nervous  views  on  the  subject,  was 
brought  to  the  Lodge  for  preparation.  Edith 
Morrison  generally  superintended  in  person  this 
particular  cookery,  Constance  often  assisting — 
or  "hindering,"  as  she  called  it — and  in  this  way 
68 


A  FLOWER  ON  A  MOUNTAIN   TOP 

the  two  had  become  much  better  acquainted.  Of 
late  Edith  had  well-nigh  banished — indeed,  she 
had  almost  forgotten — her  heart  uneasiness  of 
those  earlier  days.  She  had  quite  convinced  her- 
self that  she  had  been  mistaken,  after  all.  Frank 
and  Constance  were  together  almost  continually, 
while  Robin,  during  the  brief  stay  between  each 
coming  and  going,  had  been  just  as  in  the  old 
time — natural,  kind  and  full  of  plans  for  the  fu- 
ture. Only  once  had  he  referred  more  than  cas- 
ually to  Constance  Deane. 

"I  wish  you  two  could  see  more  of  each 
other,"  he  had  said.  "Some  day  we  may  be  in 
New  York,  you  and  I,  and  I  am  sure  she  would 
be  friendly  to  us." 

And  Edith,  forgetting  all  her  uneasiness,  had 
replied : 

"I  wish  we  might";  and  added,  "of  course,  I 
do  see  her  a  good  deal — one  way  and  another. 
She  comes  quite  often  with  Mr.  Weatherby,  but 
then  I  have  the  household  and  she  has  Mr. 
Weatherby.  Do  you  think,  Robin,  she  is  going 
to  marry  him?" 

Robin  paused  a  little  before  replying. 

"I  don't  know.  I  think  he  tries  her  a  good 
deal.  He  is  rich  and  rather  spoiled,  you  know. 

69 


THE  LUCKY  PIECE 

Perhaps  he  has  become  indifferent  to  a  good 
many  of  the  things  she  thinks  necessary." 

Edith  did  not  reflect  at  the  moment  that  this 
knowledge  on  Robin's  part  implied  confidential 
relations  with  one  of  the  two  principals.  Robin's 
knowledge  was  so  wide  and  varied  it  was  never 
her  habit  to  question  its  source. 

"She  would  rather  have  him  poor  and  ambi- 
tious, I  suppose,"  she  speculated  thoughtfully. 
Then  her  hand  crept  over  into  his  broad  palm, 
and,  looking  up,  she  added:  "Do  you  know, 
Robin,  that  for  a  few  days — the  first  few  days 
after  she  came — when  you  were  with  her  a  good 
deal — I  almost  imagined — of  course,  I  was  very 
foolish — but  she  is  so  beautiful  and — superior, 
like  you — and  somehow  you  seemed  different  to- 
ward her,  too — I  imagined,  just  a  little,  that  you 
might  care  for  her,  and  I  don't  know — perhaps  I 
was  just  the  least  bit  jealous.  I  never  was  jealous 
before — maybe  I  wasn't  then — but  I  felt  a  heavy, 
hopeless  feeling  coming  around  my  heart.  Is 
that  jealousy?" 

His  strong  arm  was  about  her  and  her  face 

hidden  on  his  shoulder.     Then  she  thought  that 

he  was  laughing — she  did  not  quite  see  why — 

but  he  held  her  close.     She  thought  it  must  all  be 

70 


A   FLOWER   ON  A  MOUNTAIN   TOP 

very  absurd  or  he  would  not  laugh.  Presently 
he  said : 

"I  do  care  for  her  a  great  deal,  and  always 
have — ever  since  she  was  a  little  girl.  But  I 
shall  never  care  for  her  any  more  than  I  did  then. 
Some  day  you  will  understand  just  why." 

If  this  had  not  been  altogether  explicit  it  at 
least  had  a  genuine  ring,  and  had  laid  to  sleep  any 
lingering  trace  of  disquiet.  As  for  the  Lodge,  it 
accepted  Frank  and  Constance  as  lovers  and  dis- 
cussed them  accordingly,  all  save  a  certain  small 
woman  in  black  whose  mission  in  life  was  to 
differ  with  her  surroundings,  and  who,  with  a 
sort  of  rocking-chair  circle  of  industry,  crocheted 
at  one  end  of  the  long  veranda,  where  from  time 
to  time  she  gave  out  vague  hints  that  things  in 
general  were  not  what  they  seemed,  thereby  fos- 
tering a  discomfort  of  the  future.  For  the  most 
part,  however,  her  pessimistic  views  found  little 
acceptance,  especially  as  they  concerned  the  af- 
fairs of  Mr.  Weatherby  and  Miss  Deane.  Miss 
Carroway,  who  for  some  reason — perhaps  be- 
cause of  the  nephew  whose  youthful  steps  she  had 
guided  from  the  cradle  to  a  comfortable  berth  in 
the  electric  works  at  Haverford — had  appointed 
herself  a  sort  of  guardian  of  the  young  man's 
71 


THE  LUCKY  PIECE 

welfare,  openly  pooh-poohed  the  small  woman 
in  black,  and  announced  that  she  shouldn't  won- 
der if  there  was  going  to  be  a  wedding  "right 
off."  It  may  be  added  that  Miss  Carroway  was 
usually  the  center  of  the  rocking-chair  circle,  and 
an  open  rival  of  the  small  woman  in  black  as  its 
directing  manager. 

The  latter,  however,  had  the  virtue  of  persist- 
ence. She  habitually  elevated  her  nose  and  cro- 
chet work  at  Miss  Carroway's  opinions,  avowing 
that  there  was  many  a  slip  and  that  appearances 
were  often  deceitful.  For  her  part,  she  didn't 
think  Miss  Deane  acted  much  like  a  girl  in  love 
unless — she  lowered  her  voice  so  that  the  others 
had  to  lean  .forward  that  no  syllable  might  es- 
cape— unless  it  was  with  some  other  man.  For 
her  part,  she  thought  Miss  Deane  had  seemed 
happier  the  first  few  days,  before  Mr.  Weatherby 
came,  going  about  with  Robin  Farnham.  Any- 
how, she  shouldn't  be  surprised  if  something 
strange  happened  before  the  summer  was  over, 
at  which  prediction  Miss  Carroway  never  failed 
to  sniff  indignantly,  and  was  likely  to  drop  a 
stitch  in  the  wristlets  she  was  knitting  for 
Charlie's  Christmas. 

It  was  about  the  mail  hour,  at  the  close  of  one 
72 


A  FLOWER   ON  A  MOUNTAIN   TOP 

such  discussion,  that  the  circle  became  aware  of 
the  objects  of  their  debate  approaching  from  the 
boat  landing.  They  made  a  handsome  picture  as 
they  came  up  the  path,  and  even  the  small  woman 
in  black  was  obliged  to  confess  that  they  were 
well  suited  enough  "so  far  as  looks  were  con- 
cerned." As  usual  they  carried  the  book  and 
basket,  and  waved  them  in  greeting  as  they  drew 
near.  Constance  lifted  the  moss  and  ferns  as 
she  passed  Miss  Carroway  to  display,  as  she  said, 
the  inviting  contents,  which  the  old  lady  regarded 
with  evident  disapproval,  though  without  com- 
ment. Miss  Deane  carried  the  basket  into  the 
Lodge,  and  when  she  returned  brought  Edith 
Morrison  with  her.  The  girl  was  rosy  with  the 
bustle  going  on  indoors,  and  her  bright  color, 
with  her  black  hair  and  her  spotless  white  apron, 
made  her  a  striking  figure.  Constance  admired 
her  openly. 

"I  brought  her  out  to  show  you  how  pretty 
she  looks,"  she  said  gayly.  "Oh,  haven't  any  of 
you  a  camera?" 

This  was  unexpected  to  Edith,  who  became 
still  rosier  and  started  to  retreat.  Constance  held 
her  fast. 

"Miss  Morrison  and  I  are  going  to  do  the  rus- 
73 


THE  LUCKY  PIECE 

sulas — that's  what  they  were,  you  know — our- 
selves," she  said.  "Of  course,  Miss  Carroway, 
you  need  not  feel  that  you  are  obliged  to  have  any 
of  them,  but  you  will  miss  something  very  nice 
if  you  don't." 

"Well,  mebbe  so,"  agreed  the  old  lady.  "I 
suppose  I've  missed  a  good  deal  in  my  life  by  not 
samplin'  everything  that  came  along,  but  mebbe 
I've  lived  just  as  long  by  not  doin'  it.  Isn't  that 
Robin  Farnham  yonder  ?  I  haven't  seen  him  for 
days." 

He  had  come  in  the  night  before,  Miss  Morri- 
son told  them.  He  had  brought  a  party  through 
Indian  Pass  and  would  not  go  out  again  until 
morning. 

Constance  nodded. 

"I  know.  They  got  their  supper  at  the  fall 
near  our  camp.  Robin  came  over  to  call  on  us. 
He  often  runs  over  for  a  little  while  when  he 
comes  our  way." 

She  spoke  quite  unconcernedly,  and  Robin's 
name  came  easily  from  her  lips.  The  little  wom- 
an in  black  shot  a  triumphant  look  at  Miss  Carro- 
way, who  did  not  notice  the  attention  or  declined 
to  acknowledge  it.  Of  the  others  only  Edith 
Morrison  gave  any  sign.  The  sudden  knowledge 
74 


A   FLOWER   ON  A  MOUNTAIN   TOP 

that  Robin  had  called  at  the  Deane  camp  the 
night  before — that  it  was  his  habit  to  do  so  when 
he  passed  that  way — a  fact  which  Robin  himself 
had  not  thought  it  necessary  to  mention — and 
then  the  familiar  use  of  his  name — almost  caress- 
ing, it  had  sounded  to  her — brought  back  with 
a  rush  that  heavy  and  hopeless  feeling  about  her 
heart.  She  wanted  to  be  wise  and  sensible  and 
generous,  but  she  could  not  help  catching  the  ve- 
randa rail  a  bit  tighter,  while  the  rich  color  faded 
from  her  cheek.  Yet  no  one  noticed,  and  she 
meant  that  no  one,  not  even  Robin,  should  know. 
No  doubt  she  was  a  fool,  unable  to  understand, 
but  she  could  not  look  toward  Robin,  nor  could 
she  move  from  where  she  stood,  holding  fast 
to  the  railing,  trying  to  be  wise  and  as  self-pos- 
sessed as  she  felt  that  other  girl  would  be  in  her 
place. 

Robin,  meantime,  had  bent  his  steps  in  their 
direction.  In  his  genial  manner  and  with  his  mel- 
low voice  he  acknowledged  the  greetings  of  this 
little  group  of  guests.  He  had  just  recalled,  he 
said  to  Constance,  having  seen  something,  dur- 
ing a  recent  trip  over  Mclntrye,  which  he  had 
at  first  taken  for  a  very  beautiful  and  peculiar 
flower.  Later  he  had  decided  it  might  be  of 
75 


THE   LUCKY   PIECE 

special  interest  to  her.  It  had  a  flower  shape,  he 
said,  and  was  pink  in  color,  but  was  like  wax,  re- 
sembling somewhat  the  Indian  pipe,  but  with 
more  open  flowers  and  much  more  beautiful.  He 
did  not  recall  having  seen  anything  of  the  sort 
before,  and  would  have  brought  home  one  of  the 
waxen  blooms,  only  that  he  had  been  going  the 
other  way  and  they  seemed  too  tender  to  carry. 
He  thought  it  a  fungus  growth. 

Constance  was  deeply  interested  in  his  infor- 
mation, and  the  description  of  what  seemed  to 
her  a  possible  discovery  of  importance.  She  made 
him  repeat  the  details  as  nearly  as  he  could  recol- 
lect, and  with  the  book  attempted  to  classify  the 
species.  Her  failure  to  do  so  only  stimulated  her 
enthusiasm. 

"I  suppose  you  could  find  the  place,  again," 
she  said. 

"Easily.  It  is  only  a  few  steps  from  the  tripod 
at  the  peak,"  and  he  drew  with  his  pencil  a  plan 
of  the  spot. 

"I've  heard  the  Mclntyre  trail  is  not  difficult  to 
keep,"  Constance  reflected. 

"No — provided,  of  course,  one  does  not  get 
into  a  fog.     It's  harder  then.     I  lost  the  trail 
myself  up  there  once  in  a  thick  mist." 
76 


A  FLOWER  ON  A  MOUNTAIN  TOP 

The  girl  turned  to  Frank,  who  was  lounging 
comfortably  on  the  steps,  idly  smoking. 

"Suppose  we  try  it  this  afternoon,"  she  said. 

Mr.  Weatherby  lifted  his  eyes  to  where  Al- 
gonquin lay — its  peaks  among  the  clouds. 

"It  looks  pretty  foggy  up  there — besides,  it 
will  be  rather  late  starting  for  a  climb  like  that." 

Miss  Deane  seemed  a  bit  annoyed. 

"Yes,"  she  said,  rather  crossly,  "it  will  always 
be  too  foggy,  or  too  late,  or  too  early  for  you.  Do 
you  know,"  she  added,  to  the  company  at  large, 
"this  young  man  hasn't  offered  to  climb  a  moun- 
tain, or  to  go  trouting,  once  since  he's  been  here. 
I  don't  believe  he  means  to,  all  summer.  He  said 
the  other  day  that  mountains  and  streams  were 
made  for  scenery — not  to  climb  and  fish  in." 

The  company  discussed  this  point.  Miss  Car- 
roway  told  of  a  hill  near  Haverford  which  she 
used  to  climb,  as  a  girl.  Frank  merely  smiled 
good-naturedly. 

"I  did  my  climbing  and  fishing  up  here  when  I 
was  a  boy,"  he  said.  "I  think  the  fish  are  smaller 
now » 

"And  the  mountains  taller — poor,  decrepit  old 
man !" 

"Well,  I  confess  the  trails  do  look  steeper,"  as- 
77 


THE   LUCKY   PIECE 

sented  Frank,  mildly;  "besides,  with  the  varied 
bill  of  fare  we  have  been  enjoying  these  days,  I 
don't  like  to  get  too  far  from  Mrs.  Deane's  medi- 
cine chest.  I  should  not  like  to  be  seized  with 
the  last  agonies  on  top  of  a  high  mountain." 

Miss  Deane  assumed  a  lofty  and  offended  air. 

"Never  you  mind,"  she  declared ;  "when  I  want 
to  scale  a  high  mountain  I  shall  engage  Mr.  Rob- 
in Farnham  to  accompany  me.  Can  you  take  me 
this  afternoon?"  she  added,  addressing  Robin. 

The  young  man  started  to  reply,  reddened  a 
little  and  hesitated.  Edith,  still  lingering,  hold- 
ing fast  to  the  veranda  rail,  suddenly  spoke. 

"He  can  go  quite  well,"  she  said,  and  there  was 
a  queer  inflection  in  her  voice.  "There  is  no 
reason " 

But  Constance  had  suddenly  arisen  and  turned 
to  her. 

"Oh,  I  beg  your  pardon!"  she  pleaded  hastily, 
"He  has  an  engagement  with  you,  of  course.  I 
did  not  think — I  can  climb  Mclntyre  any  time. 
Besides,  Mr.  Weatherby  is  right.  It  is  cloudy  up 
there,  and  we  would  be  late  starting." 

She  went  over  close  to  Edith.  The  latter  was 
pale  and  constrained,  though  she  made  an  effort 
to  appear  cordial,  repeating  her  assurance  that 
78 


A  FLOWER   ON  A  MOUNTAIN   TOP 

Robin  was  quite  free  to  go — that  she  really 
wished  him  to  do  so.  Robin  himself  did  not  find 
it  easy  to  speak,  and  Edith  a  moment  later  ex- 
cused herself,  on  the  plea  that  she  was  needed 
within.  Constance  followed  her,  presently,  while 
Frank,  lingering  on  the  steps,  asked  Robin  a  few 
questions  concerning  his  trip  through  the  Pass. 
Of  the  rocking-chair  circle,  perhaps  only  the 
small  woman  in  black  found  comfort  in  what  had 
just  taken  place.  A  silence  had  fallen  upon  the 
little  company,  and  it  was  a  relief  to  all  when 
the  mail  came  and  there  was  a  reason  for  a  gen- 
eral breaking-up.  As  usual,  Frank  and  Con- 
stance had  a  table  to  themselves  at  luncheon  and 
ate  rather  quietly,  though  the  russulas,  by  a  new 
recipe,  were  especially  fine.  When  it  was  over  at 
last  they  set  out  to  explore  the  woods  back  of  the 
Lodge. 


79 


CHAPTER  VI 
IN  THE  "DEVIL'S  GARDEN" 

CONSTANCE  DEANE  had  developed  a  definite 
ambition.  At  all  events  she  believed  it  to  be 
such,  which,  after  all,  is  much  the  same  thing  in 
the  end.  It  was  her  dream  to  pursue  this  new 
study  of  hers  until  she  had  made  a  definite  place 
for  herself,  either  as  a  recognized  authority  or  by 
some  startling  discovery,  in  mycological  annals 
— in  fact,  to  become  in  some  measure  a  benefac- 
tor of  mankind.  The  spirit  of  unrest  which  had 
possessed  her  that  afternoon  in  March,  when  she 
had  lamented  that  the  world  held  no  place  for  her, 
had  found  at  least  a  temporary  outlet  in  this  di- 
rection. We  all  have  had  such  dreams  as  hers. 
They  are  a  part  of  youth.  Often  they  seem  paltry 
enough  to  others — perhaps  to  us,  as  well,  when 
the  morning  hours  have  passed  by.  But  those 
men  and  women  who  have  made  such  dreams  real 
have  given  us  a  wiser  and  better  world.  Con- 
stance had  confided  something  of  her  intention  to 
80 


IN   THE   " DEVIL'S  GARDEN" 

Frank,  who  had  at  least  assumed  to  take  it  seri- 
ously, following  her  in  her  wanderings — pushing 
through  tangle  and  thicket  and  clambering  over 
slippery  logs  into  uncertain  places  for  possible 
treasures  of  discovery.  His  reluctance  to  scale 
Mclntyre,  though  due  to  the  reasons  given 
rather  than  to  any  thought  of  personal  discom- 
fort, had  annoyed  her,  the  more  so  because  of  the 
unpleasant  incident  which  followed.  There  had 
been  a  truce  at  luncheon,  but  once  in  the  woods 
Miss  Deane  did  not  hesitate  to  unburden  her 
mind. 

"Do  you  know,"  she  began  judicially,  as  if 
she  had  settled  the  matter  in  her  own  mind,  "I 
have  about  concluded  that  you  are  hopeless,  after 
all." 

The  culprit,  who  had  just  dragged  himself 
from  under  a  rather  low-lying  wet  log,  assumed 
an  injured  air. 

"What  can  I  have  done,  now?"  he  asked. 

"It's  not  what  you  have  done,  but  what  you 
haven't  done.  You're  so  satisfied  to  be  just  com- 
fortable, and " 

Frank  regarded  his  earthy  hands  and  soiled 
garments  rather  ruefully. 

"Of  course,"  he  admitted,  "I  may  have  looked 
81 


THE   LUCKY   PIECE 

comfortable  just  now,  rooting  and  pawing  about 
in  the  leaves  for  that  specimen,  but  I  didn't  really 
feel  so." 

"You  know  well  enough  what  I  mean,"  Con- 
stance persisted,  though  a  little  more  pacifically. 
'You  go  with  me  willingly  enough  on  such  jaunts 
as  this,  where  it  doesn't  mean  any  very  special 
exertion,  though  sometimes  I  think  you  don't  en- 
joy them  very  much.  I  know  you  would  much 
rather  drift  about  in  a  boat  on  the  lake,  or  sit 
under  a  tree,  and  have  me  read  to  you.  Do  you 
know,  I've  never  seen  any  one  who  cared  so  much 
for  old  tales  of  knights  and  their  deeds  of  valor 
and  strove  so  little  to  emulate  them  in  real  life." 

Frank  waited  a  little  before  replying.  Then 
he  said  gently : 

"I  confess  that  I  would  rather  listen  to  the  tale 
of  King  Arthur  in  these  woods,  and  as  you  read 
it,  Conny,  than  to  attempt  deeds  of  valor  on  my 
own  account.  When  I  am  listening  to  you  and 
looking  off  through  these  wonderful  woods  I  can 
realize  and  believe  in  it  all,  just  as  I  did  long  ago, 
when  I  was  a  boy  and  read  it  for  the  first  time. 
These  are  the  very  woods  of  romance,  and  I  am 
expecting  any  day  we  shall  come  upon  King  Ar- 
thur's castle.  When  we  do  I  shall  join  the  Round 
82 


IN   THE   "DEVIL'S  GARDEN" 

Table  and  ride  for  you  in  the  lists.  Meantime  I 
can  dream  it  all  to  the  sound  of  your  voice,  and 
when  I  see  the  people  here  climbing  these  moun- 
tains and  boasting  of  such  achievements  I  decide 
that  my  dream  is  better  than  their  reality." 

But  Miss  Deane's  memory  of  the  recent  cir- 
cumstances still  rankled.  She  was  not  to  be  eas- 
ily mollified. 

"And  while  you  dream,  I  am  to  find  my  reality 
as  best  I  may,"  she  said  coldly. 

"But,  Constance,"  he  protested,  "haven't  I 
climbed  trees,  and  gone  down  into  pits,  and  waded 
through  swamps,  and  burrowed  through  vines 
and  briars  at  your  command ;  and  haven't  I  more 
than  once  tasted  of  the  things  that  you  were  not 
perfectly  sure  of,  because  the  book  didn't  exactly 
cover  the  specimen  ?  Now,  here  I'm  told  that  I'm 
hopeless,  which  means  that  I'm  a  failure,  when 
even  at  this  moment  I  bear  the  marks  of  my 
devotion."  He  pointed  at  the  knees  of  his  trous- 
ers, damp  from  his  recent  experience.  "I've  done 
battle  with  nature,"  he  went  on,  "and  entered  the 
lists  with  your  detractors.  You  said  once  there 
are  knights  we  do  not  recognize  and  armor  we 
do  not  see.  Now,  don't  you  think  you  may  be 
overlooking  one  of  those  knights,  with  a  suit  of 
'83 


THE   LUCKY   PIECE 

armor  a  little  damp  at  the  knees,  perhaps,  but  still 
stout  and  serviceable?" 

The  girl  did  not,  as  usual,  respond  to  his  gay- 
ety  and  banter. 

"You  may  joke  about  it,  if  you  like,"  she  said, 
"but  true  knights,  even  in  the  garb  of  peasants, 
have  been  known  to  scale  dizzy  heights  for  a 
single  flower.  I  have  never  known  of  one  who 
refused  to  accompany  a  lady  on  such  an  errand, 
especially  when  it  was  up  an  easy  mountain  trail 
which  even  children  have  climbed." 

"Then  this  is  a  notable  day,  for  you  have  met 
two." 

She  nodded. 

"But  one  was  without  blame,  and  but  for  the 
first  there  could  not  have  occurred  the  humilia- 
tion of  the  second,  and  that,  too" — she  smiled  in 
spite  of  herself — "in  the  presence  of  my  detrac- 
tors. It  will  be  hard  for  you  to  rectify  that,  Sir 
Knight!" 

There  was  an  altered  tone  in  the  girl's  voice. 
The  humorous  phase  was  coming  nearer  the  sur- 
face. Frank  brightened. 

"Really,  though,"  he  persisted,  "I  was  right 
about  it's  being  foggy  up  there.  Farnham  would 
have  said  so,  himself." 


IN   THE   "DEVIL'S   GARDEN" 

"No  doubt,"  she  agreed,  "but  we  could  have 
reached  that  conclusion  later.  An  expressed  will- 
ingness to  go  would  have  spared  me  and  all  of 
us  what  followed.  As  it  is,  Edith  Morrison 
thinks  I  wanted  to  deprive  her  of  Robin  on  his 
one  day  at  home,  while  he  was  obliged  to  make 
himself  appear  foolish  before  every  one." 

"I  wish  you  had  as  much  consideration  for  me 
as  you  always  show  for  Robin,"  said  Frank,  be- 
coming suddenly  aggrieved. 

"And  why  not  for  Robin?"  The  girl's  voice 
became  sharply  crisp  and  defiant.  "Who  is  en- 
titled to  it  more  than  he — a  poor  boy  who  strug- 
gled when  no  more  than  a  child  to  earn  bread 
for  his  invalid  mother  and  little  sister;  who  has 
never  had  a  penny  that  he  did  not  earn;  who 
never  would  take  one,  but  in  spite  of  all  has 
fought  his  way  to  recognition  and  respect  and 
knowledge?  Oh,  you  don't  know  how  he  has 
struggled — you  who  have  had  everything  from 
birth  —  who  have  never  known  what  it  is 
not  to  gratify  every  wish,  nor  what  it  feels  like 
to  go  hungry  and  cold  that  some  one  else  might 
be  warm  and  fed."  Miss  Deane's  cheeks  were 
aglow,  and  her  eyes  were  filled  with  fire.  "It  is 
by  such  men  as  Robin  Farnham,"  she  went  on, 
85 


THE   LUCKY   PIECE 

"that  this  country  has  been  built,  with  all  its 
splendid  achievements  and  glorious  institutions, 
and  the  possibilities  for  such  fortunes  as  yours. 
Why  should  I  not  respect  him,  and  honor  him, 
and  love  him,  if  I  want  to?"  she  concluded,  car- 
ried away  by  her  enthusiasm. 

Frank  listened  gravely  to  the  end.  Then  he 
said,  very  gently : 

"There  is  no  reason  why  you  should  not  honor 
and  respect  such  a  man,  nor,  perhaps,  why  you 
should  not  love  him — if  you  want  to.  I  am  sure 
Robin  Farnham  is  a  very  worthy  fellow.  But  I 
suppose  even  you  do  not  altogether  realize  the 
advantage  of  having  been  born  poor " 

The  girl  was  about  to  break  in,  but  checked 
herself. 

"Of  having  been  born  poor,"  he  repeated,  "and 
compelled  to  struggle  from  the  beginning.  It 
gets  to  be  a  habit,  you  see,  a  sort  of  groundwork 
for  character.  Perhaps — I  do  not  say  it,  mind,  I 
only  say  perhaps — if  Robin  Farnham  had  been 
born  with  my  advantages  and  I  with  his,  it  might 
have  made  a  difference,  don't  you  think,  in  your 
very  frank  and  just  estimate  of  us  to-day?  I 
have  often  thought  that  it  is  a  misfortune  to  have 
been  born  with  money,  but  I  suppose  I  didn't 
86 


IN   THE  "DEVIL'S  GARDEN" 

think  of  it  soon  enough,  and  it  seems  pretty  late 
now  to  go  back  and  start  all  over.  Besides,  I 
have  no  one  in  need  to  struggle  for.  My  mother 
is  comfortably  off,  and  I  have  no  little  suffering 
sister " 

She  checked  him  a  gesture. 

"Don't — oh,  don't!"  she  pleaded.  "Perhaps 
you  are  right  about  being  poor,  but  that  last  seems 
mockery  and  sacrilege — I  cannot  bear  it!  You 
don't  know  what  you  are  saying.  You  don't 
know,  as  I  do,  how  he  has  gone  out  in  the  bitter 
cold  to  work,  without  his  breakfast,  because  there 
was  not  enough  for  all,  and  how — because  he 
had  cooked  the  breakfast  himself — he  did  not  let 
them  know.  No,  you  do  not  realize — you  could 
not!" 

Mr.  Weatherby  regarded  his  companion  rather 
wonderingly.  There  was  something  in  her  eyes 
which  made  them  very  bright.  It  seemed  to  him 
that  her  emotion  was  hardly  justified. 

"I  suppose  he  has  told  you  all  about  it,"  he  said, 
rather  coldly. 

She  turned  upon  him. 

"He?    Never!    He  would  never  tell  any  one! 
I  found  it  out — oh,  long  ago — but  I  did  not  un- 
derstand it  all — not  then." 
8? 


THE   LUCKY    PIECE 

"And  the  mother  and  sister — what  became  of 
them  ?" 

The  girl's  voice  steadied  itself  with  difficulty. 

"The  mother  died.  The  little  girl  was  taken 
by  some  kind  people.  He  was  left  to  fight  his 
battle  alone." 

Neither  spoke  after  this,  and  they  walked 
through  woods  that  were  like  the  mazy  forests 
of  some  old  tale.  If  there  had  been  a  momentary 
rancor  between  them  it  was  presently  dissipated 
in  the  quiet  of  the  gold-lit  greenery  about  them, 
and  as  they  wandered  on  there  grew  about  them 
a  peace  which  needed  no  outward  establishment. 
They  held  their  course  by  a  little  compass,  and 
did  not  fear  losing  their  way,  though  it  was  easy 
enough  to  become  confused  amid  those  barriers 
of  heaped  bowlders  and  tangled  logs.  By  and  by 
Constance  held  up  her  hand. 

"Listen,"  she  said,  "there  are  voices." 

They  halted,  and  a  moment  later  Robin  Farn- 
ham  and  Edith  Morrison  emerged  from  a  natu- 
ral avenue  just  ahead.  They  had  followed  a  dif- 
ferent way  and  were  returning  to  the  Lodge. 
Frank  and  Constance  pushed  forward  to  meet 
them. 

"We  have  just  passed  a  place  that  would  inter- 
88 


IN   THE   "DEVIL'S   GARDEN" 

est  you,"  said  Robin  to  Miss  Deane.  "A  curious 
shut-in  place  where  mushrooms  grow  almost  as 
if  they  had  been  planted  there.  We  will  take  you 
to  it." 

Robin  spoke  in  his  usual  manner.  Edith, 
though  rather  quiet,  appeared  to  have  forgotten 
the  incident  of  the  veranda.  Frank  and  Con- 
stance followed  a  little  way,  and  then  all  at  once 
they  were  in  a  spot  where  the  air  seemed  heavy 
and  chill,  as  though  a  miasma  rose  from  the  yield- 
ing soil.  Thick  boughs  interlaced  overhead,  and 
the  sunlight  of  summer  never  penetrated  there. 
Such  light  as  came  through  seemed  dim  and  sor- 
rowful, and  there  was  about  the  spot  a  sinister 
aspect  that  may  have  been  due  to  the  black  pool 
in  the  center  and  the  fungi  which  grew  about  it. 
Pale,  livid  growths  were  there,  shading  to  sickly 
yellow,  and  in  every  form  and  size.  So  thick 
were  they  they  fairly  overhung  and  crowded  in 
that  gruesome  bed.  Here  a  myriad  of  tiny  stems, 
there  great  distorted  shapes  pushed  through  de- 
caying leaves — or  toppled  over,  split  and  rotting 
— the  food  of  buzzing  flies,  thousands  of  which 
lay  dead  upon  the  ground.  A  sickly  odor  hung 
about  the  ghastly  place.  No  one  spoke  at  first. 
Then  Constance  said : 

89 


THE   LUCKY   PIECE 

"I  believe  they  are  all  deadly — every  one  " 
And  Frank  added : 

"I  have  heard  of  the  Devil's  Garden.  I  think 
we  have  found  it." 

Edith  Morrison  shuddered.  Perhaps  the  life 
among  the  hills  had  made  her  a  trifle  supersti- 
tious. 

"Let  us  be  going,"  Constance  said.  "Even 
the  air  of  such  a  place  may  be  dangerous."  Then, 
curiosity  and  the  collecting  instinct  getting  the 
better  of  her,  she  stooped  and  plucked  one  of  the 
yellow  fungi  which  grew  near  her  foot.  "They 
seem  to  be  all  Aminitas,"  she  added,  "the  most 
deadly  of  toadstools.  Those  paler  ones  are  Amin- 
ita Phalloidcs.  There  is  no  cure  for  their  poison. 
These  are  called  the  Fly  Aminita  because  they  at- 
tract flies  and  slay  them,  as  you  see.  This  yellow 
one  is  an  Aminita,  too — see  its  poison  cup.  I 
do  not  know  its  name,  and  we  won't  stop  here  to 
find  it,  but  I  think  we  might  call  it  the  Yellow 
Danger." 

She  dropped  it  into  the  basket  and  all  turned 
their  steps  homeward,  the  two  girls  ahead,  the 
men  following.  The  unusual  spot  had  seemed  to 
depress  them  all.  They  spoke  but  little,  and  in 
hushed  voices.  When  they  emerged  from  the 
90 


IN   THE   "DEVIL'S   GARDEN" 

woods  the  sun  had  slipped  behind  the  hills  and  a 
semi-twilight  had  fallen.  Day  had  become  a  red 
stain  in  the  west.  Constance  turned  suddenly  to 
Robin  Farnham. 

"I  think  I  will  ask  you  to  row  me  across  the 
lake,"  she  said.  "I  am  sure  Mr.  Weatherby  will 
be  glad  to  surrender  the  privilege.  I  want  to  ask 
you  something  more  about  those  specimens  you 
saw  on  Mclntyre." 

There  was  no  hint  of  embarrassment  in  Miss 
Deane's  manner  of  this  request.  Indeed,  there 
was  a  pleasant,  matter-of-fact  tone  in  her  voice 
that  to  the  casual  hearer  would  have  disarmed 
any  thought  of  suspicion.  Yet  to  Edith  and 
Frank  the  matter  seemed  ominously  important. 
They  spoke  their  adieus  pleasantly  enough,  but 
a  curious  spark  glittered  a  little  in  the  girl's  eyes 
and  the  young  man's  face  was  grave  as  they 
two  watched  the  handsome  pair  down  the  slope, 
and  saw  them  enter  the  Adirondack  canoe 
and  glide  out  on  the  iridescent  water.  Sud- 
denly Edith  turned  to  her  companion.  She 
was  very  pale  and  the  spark  had  become  almost 
a  blaze. 

"Mr.  Weatherby,"  she  said  fiercely,  "you  and 
I  are  a  pair  of  fools.  You  may  not  know  it — 


THE   LUCKY   PIECE 

perhaps  even  they  do  not  know  it,  yet.  But  it  is 
becoming  very  clear  to  me!" 

Frank  was  startled  by  her  unnatural  look  and 
tone.  As  he  stood  regarding  her,  he  saw  her  eyes 
suddenly  flood  with  tears.  The  words  did  not 
come  easily  either  to  deny  or  acknowledge  her 
conclusions.  Then,  very  gently,  as  one  might 
speak  to  a  child,  he  said : 

"Let  us  not  be  too  hasty  in  our  judgments. 
Very  sad  mistakes  have  been  made  by  being  too 
hasty."  He  looked  out  at  the  little  boat,  now 
rapidly  blending  into  the  shadows  of  the  other 
shore,  and  added — to  himself,  as  it  seemed — "I 
have  made  so  little  effort  to  be  what  she  wished. 
He  is  so  much  nearer  to  her  ideal." 

He  turned  to  say  something  more  to  the  girl 
beside  him,  but  she  had  slipped  away  and  was 
already  halfway  to  the  Lodge.  He  followed,  and 
then  for  a  time  sat  out  on  the  veranda,  smoking, 
and  reviewing  what  seemed  to  him  now  the 
wasted  years.  He  recalled  his  old  ambitions. 
Once  they  had  been  for  the  sea — the  Navy. 
Then,  when  he  had  become  associated  with  the 
college  paper  he  had  foreseen  in  himself  the  editor 
of  some  great  journal,  with  power  to  upset  con- 
spiracies and  to  unmake  kings.  Presently  he  had 
92 


IN   THE   "DEVIL'S   GARDEN" 

begun  to  write — he  had  always  dabbled  in  that — 
and  his  fellow-students  had  hailed  him  not  only 
as  their  leader  in  athletic  but  literary  pursuits. 
As  editor-in-chief  of  the  college  paper  and  vale- 
dictorian of  his  class,  he  had  left  them  at  last, 
followed  by  prophecies  of  a  career  in  the  world 
of  letters.  Well,  that  was  more  than  two  years 
ago,  and  he  had  never  picked  up  his  pen  since  that 
day.  There  had  been  so  many  other  things — so 
many  places  to  go — so  many  pleasant  people — so 
much  to  do  that  was  easier  than  to  sit  down  at  a 
remote  desk  with  pen  and  blank  paper,  when  all 
the  world  was  young  and  filled  with  gayer  things. 
Then,  presently,  he  had  reasoned  that  there  was 
no  need  of  making  the  fight — there  were  too 
many  at  it,  now.  So  the  flower  of  ambition  had 
faded  as  quickly  as  it  had  bloomed,  and  the  blos- 
soms of  pleasure  had  been  gathered  with  a  care- 
less hand.  His  meeting  with  Constance  had  been 
a  part  of  the  play-life  of  which  he  had  grown  so 
fond.  Now  that  she  had  grown  into  his  life  he 
seemed  about  to  lose  her,  because  of  the  flower 
he  had  let  die. 

The  young  man  ate  his  dinner  silently — supply- 
ing his  physical  needs  in  the  perfunctory  manner 
of  routine.    He  had  been  late  coming  in,  and  the 
93 


THE   LUCKY   PIECE 

dining-room  was  nearly  empty.  Inadvertently  he 
approached  the  group  gathered  about  the  wide 
hall  fireplace  as  he  passed  out.  Miss  Carroway 
occupied  the  center  of  this  little  party  and,  as 
usual,  was  talking.  She  appeared  to  be  arrang- 
ing some  harmless  evening  amusement. 

"It's  always  pleasant  after  supper,"  she  was 
saying — Miss  Carroway  never  referred  to  the 
evening  meal  as  dinner — "to  ask  a  few  conun- 
drums. My  Charlie  that  I  raised  and  is  now  in 
the  electric  works  at  Haverford  used  to  say  it 
helped  digestion.  Now,  suppose  we  begin.  I'll 
ask  the  first  one,  and  each  one  will  guess  in  turn. 
The  first  one  who  guesses  can  ask  the  next." 

Becoming  suddenly  conscious  of  the  drift  of 
matters,  Frank  started  to  back  out,  silently,  but 
Miss  Carroway  had  observed  his  entrance  and, 
turning,  checked  him  with  her  eye. 

"You're  just  in  time,"  she  said.  "We  haven't 
commenced  yet.  Oh,  yes,  you  must  stay.  It's 
good  for  young  people  to  have  a  little  diversion 
in  the  evening  and  not  go  poking  off  alone.  I 
am  just  about  to  ask  the  first  conundrum.  Mebbe 
you'll  get  the  next.  This  is  one  that  Charlie  al- 
ways liked.  What's  the  difference  between  a 
fountain  and  the  Prince  of  Wales?  Now,  you 
94 


IN  THE  " DEVIL'S  GARDEN" 

begin,  Mr.  Weatherby,  and  see  if  you  can  guess 
it." 

The  feeling  was  borne  in  upon  Frank  that  this 
punishment  was  rather  more  than  he  could  bear, 
and  he  made  himself  strong  for  the  ordeal.  Duti- 
fully he  considered  the  problem  and  passed  it  on 
to  the  little  woman  in  black,  who  sat  next.  Miss 
Carroway's  rival  was  consumed  with  an  anxiety 
to  cheapen  the  problem  with  a  prompt  answer. 

"That's  easy  enough,"  she  said.  "One's  the 
son  of  the  queen,  and  the  other's  a  queen  of  the 
sun.  Of  course,"  she  added,  "a  fountain  isn't 
really  a  queen  of  the  sim,  but  it  shines  and 
sparkles  and  might  be  called  that." 

Miss  Carroway  regarded  her  with  something 
of  disdain. 

"Yes,"  she  said,  with  decision,  "it  might  be, 
but  it  ain't.  You  guessed  wrong.  Next!" 

"One's  always  wet,  and  the  other's  always 
dry,"  volunteered  an  irreverent  young  person  out- 
side the  circle,  which  remark  won  a  round  of  ill- 
deserved  applause. 

"You  ought  to  come  into  the  game,"  com- 
mented Miss  Carroway,  "but  that  ain't  it,  either." 

"I'm  sure  it  has  something  with  'shine'  and 
'line,'  "  ventured  the  young  lady  from  Utica,  who 
95 


THE   LUCKY    PIECE 

was  a  school-mistress,  "or  'earth'  and  'birth.'  I 
know  I've  heard  it,  but  I  can't  remember." 

"Humph !"  sniffed  Miss  Carroway,  and  passed 
it  on.  Nobody  else  ventured  a  definition  and  the 
problem  came  back  to  its  proposer.  She  sat  up 
a  bit  straighter,  and  swept  the  circle  with  her 
firelit  glasses. 

"One's  thrown  to  the  air,  and  the  other's  heir 
to  the  throne,"  she  declared,  as  if  pronouncing 
judgment.  "I  don't  think  this  is  much  of  a  con- 
undrum crowd.  My  Charlie  would  have  guessed 
that  the  first  time.  But  I'll  give  you  one  more — 
something  easier,  and  mebbe  older." 

When  at  last  he  was  permitted  to  go  Frank 
made  his  way  gloomily  to  his  room  and  to  bed. 
The  day's  events  had  been  depressing.  He  had 
lost  ground  with  Constance,  whom,  of  late,  he 
had  been  trying  so  hard  to  please.  He  had  been 
willing  enough,  he  reflected,  to  go  up  the  moun- 
tain, but  it  really  had  been  cloudy  up  there  and  too 
late  to  start.  Then  Constance  had  blamed  him 
for  the  unpleasant  incident  which  had  followed 
— it  seemed  to  him  rather  unjustly.  Now,  Edith 
Morrison  had  declared  openly  what  he  himself 
had  been  almost  ready,  though  rather  vaguely, 
to  suspect.  He  had  let  Constance  slip  through  his 
96 


IN  THE  "DEVIL'S  GARDEN" 

fingers  after  all.  He  groaned  aloud  at  the 
thought  of  Constance  as  the  wife  of  another. 
Was  it,  after  all,  too  late?  If  he  should  begin 
now  to  do  and  dare  and  conquer,  could  he  re- 
gain the  lost  ground?  And  how  should  he 
begin?  Half  confused  with  approaching  sleep, 
his  thoughts  intermingled  with  strange  fancies, 
that  one  moment  led  him  to  the  mountain 
top  where  in  the  mist  he  groped  for  mush- 
rooms, while  the  next,  as  in  a  picture,  he  was 
achieving  some  splendid  triumph  and  laying 
the  laurels  at  her  feet.  Then  he  was  wide  awake 
again,  listening  to  the  whisper  of  the  trees  that 
came  through  his  open  window  and  the  murmur 
of  voices  from  below.  Presently  he  found  him- 
self muttering,  "What  is  the  difference  between 
a  fountain  and  the  Prince  of  Wales?" —  a  ques- 
tion which  immediately  became  a  part  of  his 
perplexing  sleep-waking  fancies,  and  the  answer 
was  something  which,  like  a  boat  in  the  mist, 
drifted  away,  just  out  of  reach.  What  was  the 
difference  between  a  fountain  and  the  Prince  of 
Wales?  It  seemed  important  that  he  should 
know,  and  then  the  query  became  visualized  in  a 
sunlit  plume  of  leaping  water  with  a  diadem  at 
the  top,  and  this  suddenly  changed  into  a  great 
97 


THE  LUCKY   PIECE 

mushroom,  of  the  color  of  gold,  and  of  which 
some  one  was  saying,  "Don't  touch  it — it's  the 
Yellow  Danger."  Perhaps  that  was  Edith  Mor- 
rison, for  he  saw  her  dark,  handsome  face  just 
then,  her  eyes  bright  with  tears  and  fierce  with  the 
blaze  of  jealousy.  Then  he  slept. 


CHAPTER  VII 

THE  PATH  THAT  LEADS  BACK  TO  BOYHOOD 

THE  sun  was  not  yet  above  the  hills  when  Frank 
Weatherby  left  the  Lodge  next  morning.  He 
halted  for  a  moment  to  procure  some  convenient 
receptacle  and  was  supplied  with  a  trout  basket 
which,  slung  across  his  shoulder,  gave  him  quite 
the  old  feeling  of  preparation  for  a  day's  sport, 
instead  of  merely  an  early  trip  up  Mclntyre. 
Robin  Farnham  was  already  up  and  away  with 
his  party,  but  another  guide  loitered  about  the 
cabin  and  showed  a  disposition  to  be  friendly. 

"Better  wait  till  after  breakfast,"  he  said.  "It 
don't  take  long  to  run  up  Mclntyre  and  back. 
You'll  have  plenty  of  time." 

"But  it  looks  clear  up  there,  now.  It  may  be 
f°ggy»  later  on.  Besides,  I've  just  bribed  the 
cook  to  give  me  a  bite,  so  I'm  not  afraid  of  get- 
ting hungry." 

The  guide  brought  out  a  crumpled,  rusty-look- 
ing fly-hook  and  a  little  roll  of  line. 

"Take  these,"  he  urged.  "You'll  cross  a  brook 
99 


THE   LUCKY   PIECE 

or  two  where  there's  some  trout.  Mebbe  you  can 
get  a  few  while  you're  resting.  I'd  lend  you  a 
rod  if  we  had  one  here,  but  you  can  cut  a  switch 
that  will  do.  The  fish  are  mostly  pretty  small." 

The  sight  of  the  gayly  colored  flies,  the  line  and 
the  feeling  of  the  basket  at  his  side  was  a  com- 
bination not  to  be  resisted.  The  years  seemed  to 
roll  backward,  and  Frank  felt  the  old  eager  long- 
ing to  be  following  the  tumbling,  swirling  water 
— to  feel  the  sudden  tug  at  the  end  of  a  drifting 
line. 

It  was  a  rare  morning.  The  abundant  forest 
was  rich  with  every  shade  of  green  and  bright 
with  dew.  Below,  where  the  path  lay,  it  was  still 
dim  and  silent,  but  the  earliest  touch  of  sunrise 
had  set  the  tree-tops  aglow  and  started  a  bird 
concert  in  the  high  branches. 

The  Mclntyre  trail  was  not  a  hard  one  to  fol- 
low. Neither  was  it  steep  for  a  considerable  dis- 
tance, and  Frank  strode  along  rapidly  and  with- 
out fatigue.  In  spite  of  his  uneasiness  of  spirit 
the  night  before,  he  had  slept  the  sleep  of  youth 
and  health,  and  the  smell  of  the  morning  woods, 
the  feel  of  the  basket  at  his  side,  the  following 
of  this  fascinating  trail  brought  him  nearer  to 
boyhood  with  every  forward  step.  He  would  go 
100 


THE   PATH   THAT   LEADS   BACK 

directly  to  the  top  of  the  mountain,  he  thought, 
find  the  curious  flower  or  fungus  which  Robin 
had  seen,  and  on  his  return  trip  would  stop  at -the 
brooks  and  perhaps  bring  home  a  basket  of  trout ; 
after  which  he  would  find  Constance  and  lay  the 
whole  at  her  feet  as  a  proof  that  he  was  not  al- 
together indifferent  to  her  wishes.  Also,  it  might 
be,  as  a  token  that  he  had  renewed  his  old  ambi- 
tion to  be  something  more  than  a  mere  lover  of 
ease  and  pleasure  and  a  dreamer  of  dreams. 

The  suspicions  stirred  by  Edith  Morrison  the 
night  before  had  grown  dim — indeed  had  almost 
vanished  in  the  clear  glow  of  morning.  Con- 
stance might  wish  to  punish  him — that  was  quite 
likely — though  it  was  highly  improbable  that  she 
should  have  selected  this  method.  In  fact,  it  was 
quite  certain  that  any  possibility  of  causing  heart- 
ache, especially  where  Edith  Morrison  was  con- 
cerned, would  have  been  most  repugnant  to  a  girl 
of  the  character  and  ideals  of  Constance  Deane. 
She  admired  Robin  and  found  pleasure  in  his 
company.  That  she  made  no  concealment  of 
these  things  was  the  best  evidence  that  there  was 
nothing  to  be  concealed.  That  unconsciously  she 
and  Robin  were  learning  to  care  for  each  other, 
he  thought  most  unlikely.  He  remembered  Con- 
101 


THE   LUCKY   PIECE 

stance  as  she  had  seemed  during  the  days  of  their 
meeting  at  Lenox,  when  she  had  learned  to  know, 
and  he  believed  to  care  for  him.  It  had  never 
been  like  that.  It  would  not  be  like  that,  now, 
with  another.  There  would  be  no  other.  He 
would  be  more  as  she  would  have  him — more  like 
Robin  Farnham.  Why,  he  was  beginning  this 
very  moment.  Those  years  of  idleness  had 
dropped  away.  He  had  regarded  himself  as  be- 
yond the  time  of  beginning !  What  nonsense !  At 
twenty-four — full  of  health  and  the  joy  of  living 
— swinging  up  a  mountain  trail  to  win  a  flower 
for  the  girl  he  loved,  with  a  cavalcade  of  old 
hopes  and  dreams  and  ambitions  once  more  rid- 
ing through  his  heart.  To-day  was  life.  Yester- 
day was  already  with  the  vanished  ages.  Then 
for  a  moment  he  recalled  the  sorrow  of  Edith 
Morrison  and  resolved  within  him  to  see  her  im- 
mediately upon  his  return,  to  prove  to  her  how 
groundless  and  unjust  had  been  her  conclusions. 
She  was  hardly  to  blame.  She  was  only  a  moun- 
tain girl  and  did  not  understand.  It  was  absurd 
that  he,  who  knew  so  much  of  the  world  and  of 
human  nature,  should  have  allowed  himself  even 
for  a  moment  to  be  influenced  by  the  primitive 
notions  of  this  girl  of  the  hills. 

102 


THE  PATH  THAT  LEADS  BACK 

The  trail  grew  steeper  now.  The  young  man 
found  himself  breathing  a  trifle  quicker  as  he 
pushed  upward.  Sometimes  he  seized  a  limb  to 
aid  him  in  swinging  up  a  rocky  steep — again  he 
parted  dewy  bushes  that  locked  their  branches 
across  the  way.  Presently  there  was  a  sound  of 
water  falling  over  stones,  and  a  moment  later 
he  had  reached  a  brook  that  hurried  down  the 
mountain  side,  leaping  and  laughing  as  it  ran. 
There  was  a  narrow  place  and  a  log  where  the 
trail  crossed,  with  a  little  fall  and  a  deep  pool 
just  below  it.  Frank  did  not  mean  to  stop  for 
trout  now,  but  it  occurred  to  him  to  try  this  brook, 
that  he  might  judge  which  was  the  better  to  fish 
on  his  return.  He  looked  about  until  he  found  a 
long,  slim  shoot  of  some  tough  wood,  and  this  he 
cut  for  a  rod.  Then  he  put  on  a  bit  of  the  line — 
a  longer  piece  would  not  do  in  this  little  stream 
— and  at  the  end  he  strung  a  short  leader  and  two 
flies.  It  was  queer,  but  he  found  his  fingers 
trembling  just  a  little  with  eagerness  as  he  ad- 
justed those  flies;  and  when  he  held  the  rig  at 
arm's  length  and  gave  it  a  little  twitch  in  the  old 
way  it  was  not  so  bad,  after  all,  he  thought.  As 
he  stealthily  gained  the  exact  position  where  he 
could  drop  the  lure  on  the  eddy  below  the  fall  and 
103 


THE   LUCKY   PIECE 

poised  the  slender  rod  for  the  cast,  the  only  earthly 
thing  that  seemed  important  was  the  placing 
of  those  two  tiny  bits  of  gimp  and  feathers  just 
on  that  spot  where  the  water  swirled  under  the 
edge  of  the  black  overhanging  rock.  Gently,  now 
— so.  A  quick  flash,  a  swish,  a  sharp  thrilling 
tug,  an  instinctive  movement  of  the  wrist,  and 
something  was  leaping  and  glancing  on  the 
pebbles  below — something  dark  and  golden  and 
gayly  red-spotted — something  which  no  man  who 
has  ever  trailed  a  brook  can  see  without  a  quick- 
ening heart — a  speckled  trout!  Certainly  it  was 
but  a  boy  who  leaped  down  and  disentangled  the 
captured  fish  and  held  it  joyously  for  a  moment, 
admiring  its  markings  and  its  size  before  drop- 
ping it  into  the  basket  at  his  side. 

"Pretty  good  for  such  a  little  brook,"  he  said 
aloud.  "I  wonder  if  there  are  many  like  that." 

He  made  another  cast,  but  without  result. 

"I've  frightened  them,"  he  thought.  "I  came 
lumbering  down  like  a  duffer.  Besides,  they  can 
see  me,  here." 

He  turned  and  followed  the  stream  with  his 
eye.  It  seemed  a  succession  of  falls  and  fascinat- 
ing pools,  and  the  pools  grew  even  larger  and 
more  enticing.  He  could  not  resist  trying  just 
103 


THE   PATH   THAT   LEADS   BACK 

once  more,  and  when  another  goodly  trout  was 
in  his  creel  and  then  another,  all  else  in  life  be- 
came hazy  in  the  joy  of  following  that  stream 
from  fall  to  fall  and  from  pool  to  pool — of  drop- 
ping those  gay  little  flies  just  in  the  particular 
spot  which  would  bring  that  flash  and  swish,  that 
delightful  tug,  and  the  gayly  speckled  capture 
that  came  glancing  to  his  feet.  Why  not  do  his 
fishing  now,  in  these  morning  hours  when  the 
time  was  right  ?  Later,  the  sport  might  be  poor, 
or  none  at  all.  At  this  rate  he  could  soon  fill  his 
creel  and  then  make  his  way  up  the  mountain. 
He  halted  a  moment  to  line  the  basket  with  damp 
moss  and  water  grasses  to  keep  his  catch  fresh. 
Then  he  put  aside  every  other  purpose  for  the 
business  of  the  moment,  creeping  around  bushes, 
or  leaping  from  stone  to  stone — sometimes  slip- 
ping to  his  knees  in  the  icy  water,  caring  not  for 
discomfort  or  bruises — heedless  of  everything  ex- 
cept the  zeal  of  pursuit  and  the  zest  of  capture — 
the  glory  of  the  bright  singing  water,  spilling 
from  pool  to  pool — the  filtering  sunlight — the 
quiring  birds — the  resinous  smell  of  the  forest 
— all  the  things  which  lure  the  feet  of  young  men 
over  the  paths  trod  by  their  fathers  in  the  long- 
forgotten  days. 

105 


THE  LUCKY   PIECE 

The  stream  widened.  The  pools  grew  deeper 
and  the  trout  larger  as  he  descended.  Soon  he 
decided  to  keep  only  the  larger  fish.  All  others  he 
tossed  back  as  soon  as  taken.  Then  there  came 
a  break  ahead  and  presently  the  brook  pitched 
over  a  higher  fall  than  any  he  had  passed,  into  a 
larger  stream — almost  a  river.  A  great  regret 
came  upon  the  young  man  as  he  viewed  this  fine 
water  that  rushed  and  swirled  among  a  thousand 
bowlders,  ideal  stepping  stones  with  ideal  pools 
below.  Oh,  now,  for  a  rod  and  reel,  with  a  length 
of  line  to  cast  far  ahead  into  those  splendid 
pools! 

The  configuration  of  the  land  caused  this  larger 
stream  to  pursue  a  course  around,  rather  than 
down  the  mountain  side,  and  Frank  decided  that 
he  could  follow  it  for  a  distance,  and  then,  with 
the  aid  of  his  compass,  strike  straight  for  the 
mountain  top  without  making  his  way  back  up 
stream. 

But  first  he  must  alter  his  tackle.  He  looked 
about  and  presently  cut  a  much  longer  and  strong- 
er rod  and  lengthened  his  line  accordingly.  Then 
he  made  his  way  among  the  bowlders  and  began 
to  whip  the  larger  pools.  Cast  after  cast  resulted 
in  no  return.  He  began  to  wonder,  after  all,  if 
106 


THE  PATH  THAT   LEADS  BACK 

it  would  not  be  a  mistake  to  fish  this  larger  and 
less  fruitful  stream.  But  suddenly  there  came 
a  great  gleam  of  light  where  his  flies  fell,  and 
though  the  fish  failed  to  strike,  Frank's  heart 
gave  a  leap,  for  he  knew  now  that  in  this  water 
— though  they  would  be  fewer  in  number — there 
were  trout  which  were  well  worth  while.  He  cast 
again  over  the  dark,  foamy  pool,  and  this  time 
the  flash  was  followed  by  such  a  tug  as  at  first 
made  him  fear  that  his  primitive  tackle  might  not 
hold.  Oh,  then  he  longed  for  a  reel  and  a  net. 
This  was  a  fish  that  could  not  be  lightly  lifted  out, 
but  must  be  worked  to  a  landing  place  and  dragged 
ashore.  Holding  the  line  taut,  he  looked  for  such 
a  spot,  and  selecting  the  shallow  edge  of  a  flat 
stone,  drew  his  prize  nearer  and  nearer — drawing 
in  the  rod  itself,  hand  over  hand,  and  finally  the 
line  until  the  struggling,  leaping  capture  was  in 
his  hands.  This  was  something  like!  This  was 
sport,  indeed!  There  was  no  thought  now  of 
turning  back.  To  carry  home  even  a  few  fish, 
taken  with  such  a  tackle,  would  redeem  him  for 
many  shortcomings  in  Constance's  eyes.  He 
was  sorry  now  that  he  had  kept  any  of  the  smaller 
fry. 

He  followed  down  the  stream,  stepping  from 
107 


THE   LUCKY   PIECE 

bowlder  to  bowlder,  casting  as  he  went.  Here 
and  there  trout  rose,  but  they  were  old  and  wary 
and  hesitated  to  strike.  He  got  another  at 
length,  somewhat  smaller  than  the  first,  and 
lost  still  another  which  he  thought  was  larger 
than  either.  Then  for  a  considerable  distance  he 
whipped  the  most  attractive  water  without  re- 
ward, changing  his  flies  at  length,  but  to  no 
purpose. 

"It  must  be  getting  late,"  he  reflected  aloud, 
and  for  the  first  time  thought  of  looking  at  his 
watch.  He  was  horrified  to  find  that  it  was  nearly 
eleven  o'clock,  by  which  time  he  had  expected 
to  have  reached  the  top  of  Mclntyre  and  to  have 
been  well  on  his  way  back  to  the  Lodge.  He 
must  start  at  once,  for  the  climb  would  be  long 
and  rough  here,  out  of  the  regular  trail. 

Yet  he  paused  to  make  one  more  cast,  over  a 
black  pool  where  there  was  a  fallen  log,  and  bub- 
bles floating  on  the  surface.  His  arm  had  grown 
tired  swinging  the  heavy  green  rod  and  his  aim 
was  poor.  The  flies  struck  a  little  twig  and  hung 
there,  dangling  in  the  air.  A  twitch  and  they 
were  free  and  had  dropped  to  the  surface  of  the 
water.  Yet  barely  to  reach  it.  For  in  that  in- 
stant a  wave  rolled  up  and  divided — a  great 
108 


THE   PATH   THAT   LEADS   BACK 

black-and-gold  shape  made  a  porpoise  leap  into 
the  air.  The  lower  fly  disappeared,  and  an  in- 
stant later  Frank  was  gripping  the  tough  green 
rod  with  both  hands,  while  the  water  and  trees 
and  sky  blended  and  swam  before  him  in  the  in- 
tensity of  the  struggle  to  hold  and  to  keep  hold- 
ing that  black-and-gold  monster  at  the  other  end 
of  the  tackle — to  keep  him  from  getting  back 
under  that  log — from  twisting  the  line  around  a 
limb — in  a  word,  to  prevent  him  from  regaining 
freedom.  It  would  be  lunacy  to  drag  this  fish 
ashore  by  force.  The  line  or  the  fly  would  cer- 
tainly give  way,  even  if  the  rod  would  stand.  In- 
deed, when  he  tried  to  work  his  capture  a  little 
nearer,  it  held  so  like  a  rock  that  he  believed  for 
a  moment  the  line  was  already  fast.  But  then 
came  a  sudden  rush  to  the  right  and  another 
stand,  and  to  the  left — with  a  plunge  for  depth — 
and  with  each  of  these  rushes  Frank's  heart  stood 
still,  for  he  felt  that  against  the  power  of  this 
monster  his  tackle  could  not  hold.  Every  nerve 
and  fiber  in  his  body  seemed  to  concentrate  on  the 
slow-moving  point  of  dark  line  where  the  tense 
strand  touched  the  water.  A  little  this  way  or 
that  it  swung — perhaps  yielded  a  trifle  or  drew 
down  a  bit  as  the  great  fish  in  its  battle  for  life 
109 


THE   LUCKY   PIECE 

gave  an  inch  only  to  begin  a  still  fiercer  struggle 
in  this  final  tug  of  war.  To  all  else  the  young 
man  was  oblivious.  A  bird  dropped  down  on  a 
branch  and  shouted  at  him — he  did  not  hear  it. 
A  cloud  swept  over  the  sun — he  did  not  see  it. 
Life,  death,  eternity  mattered  nothing.  Only 
that  moving  point  of  line  mattered — only  the 
thought  that  the  powerful,  unconquered  shape 
below  might  presently  go  free. 

And  then — inch  by  inch  it  seemed — the  steady 
wrist  and  the  crude  tackle  began  to  gain  advan- 
tage, the  monster  of  black  and  gold  was  forced  to 
yield.  Scarcely  breathing,  Frank  watched  the 
point  of  the  line,  inch  by  inch,  draw  nearer  to  a 
little  pebbly  shore  that  ran  down,  where,  if  any- 
where, he  could  land  his  prey.  Once,  indeed,  the 
great  fellow  came  to  the  surface,  then,  seeing  his 
captor,  made  a  fierce  dive  and  plunged  into  a  wild 
struggle,  during  which  hope  almost  died.  Another 
dragging  toward  the  shore,  another  struggle  and 
yet  another,  each  becoming  weaker  and  less  en- 
during, until  lo,  there  on  the  pebbles,  gasping  and 
striking  with  his  splendid  tail,  lay  the  conquered 
king  of  fish.  It  required  but  an  instant  for  the 
captor  to  pounce  upon  him  and  to  secure  him 
with  a  piece  of  line  through  his  gills,  and  this  he 
no 


THE  PATH   THAT   LEADS  BACK 

replaced  with  a  double  willow  branch  which  he 
could  tie  together  and  to  the  basket,  for  this 
fish  was  altogether  too  large  to  go  inside.  Ex- 
hausted and  weak  from  the  struggle,  Frank  sat 
down  to  contemplate  his  capture  and  to  regain 
strength  before  starting  up  the  mountain.  Five 
pounds,  certainly,  this  fish  weighed,  he  thought, 
and  he  tenderly  regarded  the  fly  that  had  lured 
it  to  the  death,  and  carefully  wound  up  the  cheap 
bit  of  line  that  had  held  true.  No  such  fish  had 
been  brought  to  the  Lodge,  and  then,  boy  that  he 
was,  he  thought  how  proud  he  should  be  of  his 
triumph,  and  with  what  awe  Constance  would  re- 
gard his  skill  in  its  capture.  And  in  that  moment 
it  was  somehow  borne  in  upon  him  that  with  this 
battle  and  this  victory  there  had  come  in  truth  the 
awakening — that  the  indolent,  luxury-loving  man 
had  become  as  a  sleep-walker  of  yesterday  who 
would  never  cross  the  threshold  of  to-day. 

A  drop  of  water  on  his  hand  aroused  him.  The 
sun  had  disappeared — the  sky  was  overcast — 
there  was  rain  in  the  air.  He  must  hurry,  he 
thought,  and  get  up  the  mountain  and  away,  be- 
fore the  storm.  He  could  not  see  the  peak,  for 
here  the  trees  were  tall  and  thick,  but  he  knew  his 
in 


THE   LUCKY    PIECE 

direction  by  the  compass  and  by  the  slope  of  the 
land.  From  the  end  of  his  late  rod  he  cut  a  walk- 
ing stick  and  set  out  as  rapidly  as  he  could  make 
his  way  through  brush  and  vines,  up  the  moun- 
tain-side. 

But  it  was  toilsome  work.  The  mountain  be- 
came steeper,  the  growth  thicker,  his  load  of  fish 
weighed  him  down.  He  was  almost  tempted  to 
retrace  his  way  up  the  river  and  brook  to  the 
trail,  but  was  loath  to  consume  such  an  amount 
of  time  when  it  seemed  possible  to  reach  the  peak 
by  a  direct  course.  Then  it  became  darker  in 
the  woods,  and  the  bushes  seemed  damp  with 
moisture.  He  wondered  if  he  was  entering  a 
fog  that  had  gathered  on  the  mountain  top, 
and,  once  there,  if  he  could  find  what  he  sought. 
Only  the  big  fish,  swinging  at  his  side  and 
dragging  in  the  leaves  as  he  crept  through 
underbrush,  gave  him  comfort  in  what  was 
rapidly  becoming  an  unpleasant  and  difficult  un- 
dertaking. Presently  he  was  reduced  to  climb- 
ing hand  over  hand,  clinging  to  bushes  and  brac- 
ing his  feet  as  best  he  might.  All  at  once,  he  was 
face  to  face  with  a  cliff  which  rose  sheer  for  sixty 
feet  or  more  and  which  it  seemed  impossible  to 
ascend.  He  followed  it  for  a  distance  and  came 
112 


THE  PATH  THAT  LEADS  BACK 

at  last  to  where  a  heavy  vine  dropped  from  above, 
and  this  made  a  sort  of  ladder,  by  which,  after  a 
great  deal  of  clinging  and  scrambling,  he  man- 
aged to  reach  the  upper  level,  where  he  dropped 
down  to  catch  breath,  only  to  find,  when  he  came 
to  look  for  his  big  fish,  that  somehow  in  the  up- 
ward struggle  it  had  broken  loose  from  the  bas- 
ket and  was  gone.  It  was  most  disheartening. 

"If  I  were  not  a  man  I  would  cry,"  he  said, 
wearily — then  peering  over  the  cliff  he  was  over- 
joyed to  see  the  lost  fish  hanging  not  far  below, 
suspended  by  the  willow  loop  he  had  made. 

So  then  he  climbed  down  carefully  and  secured 
it,  and  struggled  back  again,  this  time  almost 
faint  with  weariness,  but  happy  in  regaining  his 
treasure.  And  now  he  realized  that  a  fog  was  in- 
deed upon  the  mountain.  At  the  foot  of  the  cliff 
and  farther  down  the  air  seemed  clear  enough, 
but  above  him  objects  only  a  few  feet  distant  were 
lost  in  a  white  mist,  while  here  and  there  a  drop 
as  of  rain  struck  in  the  leaves.  It  would  not  do 
to  waste  time.  A  storm  might  be  gathering,  and 
a  tempest,  or  even  a  chill  rain  on  the  top  of  Mc- 
Intyre  was  something  to  be  avoided.  He  rose, 
and  climbing,  stooping,  crawling,  struggled  to- 
ward the  mountain-top.  The  timber  became 
"3 


THE   LUCKY   PIECE 

smaller,  the  tangle  closer,  the  white  mist  thick- 
ened. Often  he  paused  from  sheer  exhaustion. 
Once  he  thought  he  heard  some  one  call.  But 
listening  there  came  only  silence,  and  staggering 
to  his  feet  he  struggled  on. 


114 


CHAPTER  VIII 

WHAT  CAME  OUT  OF  THE  MIST 

IT  was  several  hours  after  Frank  Weatherby  had 
set  out  on  the  Mclntyre  trail — when  the  sun  had 
risen  to  a  point  where  it  came  mottling  through 
the  tree-tops  and  dried  the  vines  and  bushes  along 
the  fragrant,  yielding  path  below — that  a  girl 
came  following  in  the  way  which  led  up  the 
mountain  top.  She  wore  a  stout  outing  costume 
— short  skirt  and  blouse,  heavy  boots,  and  an  old 
felt  school  hat  pinned  firmly  to  luxuriant  dark 
hair.  On  her  arm  she  carried  the  basket  of  many 
wanderings,  and  her  step  was  that  of  health  and 
strength  and  purpose.  One  watching  Constance 
Deane  unawares — noting  her  carriage  and  sure- 
ness  of  foot,  the  easy  grace  with  which  she  over- 
came the  various  obstructions  in  her  path — might 
have  said  that  she  belonged  by  right  to  these 
woods,  was  a  part  of  them,  and  one  might  have 
added  that  she  was  a  perfect  flowering  of  this 
splendid  forest. 

"5 


THE  LUCKY   PIECE 

On  the  evening  before,  she  had  inquired  of 
Robin  the  precise  entrance  to  the  Mclntyre  trail, 
and  with  his  general  directions  she  had  no  hesi- 
tation now  in  setting  out  on  her  own  account  to 
make  the  climb  which  would  bring  her  to  the 
coveted  specimens  at  the  mountain  top.  She 
would  secure  them  with  the  aid  of  no  one  and  so 
give  Frank  an  exhibition  of  her  independence,  and 
perhaps  impress  him  a  little  with  his  own  lack  of 
ambition  and  energy.  She  had  avoided  the 
Lodge,  making  her  way  around  the  lake  to  the 
trail,  and  had  left  no  definite  word  at  home  as  to 
her  destination,  for  it  was  quite  certain  that  Mrs. 
Deane  would  worry  if  it  became  known  that  Con- 
stance had  set  off  up  the  mountain  alone.  Yet 
she  felt  thoroughly  equal  to  the  undertaking.  In 
her  basket  she  carried  some  sandwiches,  and  she 
had  no  doubt  of  being  able  to  return  to  the  Lodge 
during  the  afternoon,  where  she  had  a  certain 
half-formed  idea  of  finding  Frank  disconsolately 
waiting — a  rather  comforting — even  if  pathetic 
— picture  of  humiliation. 

Constance  did  not  linger  at  the  trout-brook 
which  had  enticed  Frank  from  the  narrow  up- 
ward path,  save  to  dip  up  a  cold  drink  with  the 
little  cup  she  carried,  and  to  rest  up  a  moment 
116 


WHAT   CAME   OUT   OF   THE   MIST 

and  watch  the  leaping  water  as  it  foamed  and 
sang  down  the  natural  stairway  which  led  from 
one  mystery  in  the  dark  vistas  above  to  another 
mystery  and  wider  vistas  below — somehow,  at 
last,  to  reach  that  deeper  and  vaster  and  more 
impenetrable  mystery — the  sea.  She  recalled 
some  old  German  lines  beginning,  "Du  Bachlein, 
silberhell  und  klar,"  and  then  she  remembered 
having  once  recited  them  to  Frank,  and  how  he 
had  repeated  them  in  an  English  translation : 

"Thou  brooklet,  silver-bright  and  clear — 
Forever  passing — always  here — 
Upon  thy  brink  I  sit,  and  think 
Whence  comest  thou?     Whence  goest  thou?" 

He  had  not  confessed  it,  but  she  suspected  the 
translation  to  be  his  own,  and  it  had  exasperated 
her  that  one  who  could  do  a  thing  well  and  with 
such  facility  should  set  so  little  store  by  his  gift, 
when  another,  with  a  heart  hunger  for  achieve- 
ment, should  have  been  left  so  unfavored  of  the 
gods. 

She  walked  rather  more  slowly  when  she  had 

passed   the  brook — musing  upon   these   things. 

Then  presently  the  path  became  precipitous  and 

narrow,  and  led  through  thick  bushes,  and  over 

117 


THE  LUCKY  PIECE 

or  under  difficult  obstructions.  Constance  drew 
on  a  thick  pair  of  gloves  to  grapple  with  rough 
limbs  and  sharp  points  of  rock.  Here  and  there 
were  fairly  level  stretches  and  easy  going,  but  for 
the  most  part  it  was  up  and  up — steeper  and 
steeper — over  stones  and  logs,  through  heavy 
bushes  and  vines  that  matted  across  the  trail,  so 
that  one  must  stoop  down  and  burrow  like  a  rab- 
bit not  to  miss  the  way. 

Miss  Deane  began  to  realize  presently  that  the 
Mclntyre  trail  was  somewhat  less  easy  than  she 
had  anticipated. 

"If  Robin  calls  this  an  easy  trail,  I  should  like 
to  know  what  he  means  by  a  hard  one,"  she  com- 
mented aloud,  as  she  made  her  way  through  a 
great  tumble  of  logs  only  to  find  that  the  narrow 
path  disappeared  into  a  clump  of  bushes  beyond 
and  apparently  brought  up  plump  against  a  plung- 
ing waterfall  on  the  other  side.  "One  would 
have  to  be  a  perfect  salmon  to  scale  that !" 

But  arriving  at  the  foot  of  the  fall,  she  found 
that  the  trail  merely  crossed  the  pool  below  and 
was  clearly  marked  beyond.  This  was  the  brook 
which  Frank  had  not  reached.  It  was  no  great 
distance  from  the  summit. 

But  now  the  climb  became  steeper  than  ever — 
118 


WHAT  CAME  OUT  OF  THE  MIST 

a  hand  over  hand  affair,  with  scratched  face  and 
torn  dress  and  frequent  pauses  for  breath.  There 
was  no  longer  any  tall  timber,  but  only  masses 
of  dwarfed  and  twisted  little  oak  trees — a  few 
feet  high,  though  gnarled  and  gray  with  age, 
and  loaded  with  acorns.  Constance  knew  these 
for  the  scrub-oak,  that  degenerate  but  persistent 
little  scion  of  a  noble  race,  that  pushes  its  minia- 
ture forests  to  the  very  edge  and  into  the  last 
crevice  of  the  barren  mountain  top.  Soon  this 
diminutive  wilderness  began  to  separate  into  seg- 
ments and  the  trail  reached  a  comparative  level. 
Then  suddenly  it  became  solid  rock,  with  only 
here  and  there  a  clump  of  the  stunted  oak,  or  a 
bit  of  grass.  The  girl  realized  that  she  must  be 
on  the  summit  and  would  presently  reach  the 
peak,  where,  from  a  crevice,  grew  the  object  of 
her  adventure.  She  paused  a  moment  for  breath, 
and  to  straighten  her  disheveled  hair.  Also  she 
turned  for  a  look  at  the  view  which  she  thought 
must  lie  behind  her.  But  she  gave  a  little  cry  of 
disappointment.  A  white  wraith  of  mist,  like  the 
very  ghost  of  a  cloud,  was  creeping  silently  along 
the  mountain  side  and  veiled  the  vision  of  the 
wide  lands  below.  Where  she  stood  the  air  was 
still  clear,  but  she  imagined  the  cloud  was  creep- 
up 


THE  LUCKY   PIECE 

ing  nearer  and  would  presently  envelop  the  moun- 
tain-top. She  would  hurry  to  the  peak  and  try 
to  get  a  view  from  the  other  side,  which  after  all 
was  considered  the  best  outlook. 

The  trail  now  led  over  solid  granite  and  could 
be  followed  only  by  little  cairns  or  heaps  of  stone, 
placed  at  some  distance  apart,  but  in  the  clear 
air  easily  seen  from  one  to  the  other.  She  moved 
rapidly,  for  the  way  was  no  longer  steep,  and  ere 
long  the  tripod  which  marked  the  highest  point, 
and  near  which  Robin  had  seen  the  strange  wax- 
en flower,  was  outlined  against  the  sky.  A  mo- 
ment later  when  she  looked  it  seemed  to  her  less 
clear.  The  air,  too,  had  a  chill  damp  feeling. 
She  turned  quickly  to  look  behind  her,  and  uttered 
a  little  cry  of  surprise  that  was  almost  terror. 
The  cloud  ghost  was  upon  her — she  was  already 
enveloped  in  its  trailing  cerements.  Behind,  all 
was  white,  and  when  she  turned  again  the  tripod 
too  had  well-nigh  disappeared.  As  if  about  to 
lose  the  object  of  her  quest,  she  started  to  run, 
and  when  an  instant  later  the  beacon  was  lost 
in  a  thick  fold  of  white  she  again  opened  her  lips 
in  a  wild  despairing  cry.  Yet  she  did  not  stop, 
but  raced  on,  forgetting  even  the  little  guiding 
cairns  which  pointed  the  way.  It  would  have 
1 20 


WHAT   CAME   OUT   OF   THE   MIST 

made  no  difference  had  she  remembered  them,  for 
the  cloud  became  so  dense  that  she  could  not  have 
seen  one  from  the  other.  How  close  it  shut  her 
in,  this  wall  of  white,  as  impalpable  and  as  opaque 
as  the  smoke  of  burning  grass! 

It  seemed  a  long  way  to  the  tripod.  It  must 
have  been  farther  than  she  had  thought.  Sudden- 
ly she  realized  that  the  granite  no  longer  rose  a 
little  before  her,  but  seemed  to  drop  away.  She 
had  missed  the  tripod,  then,  and  was  descending 
on  the  other  side.  Turning,  she  retraced  her 
steps,  more  slowly  now,  trying  to  keep  the  up- 
ward slope  before  her.  But  soon  she  realized  that 
in  this  thick  and  mystifying  whiteness  she  could 
not  be  certain  of  the  level — that  by  thinking  so 
she  could  make  the  granite  seem  to  slope  a  little 
up  or  down,  and  in  the  same  manner,  now,  she 
could  set  the  tripod  in  any  direction  from  her  at 
will.  Confused,  half  terrified  at  the  thought, 
she  stood  perfectly  still,  trying  to  think.  The  tri- 
pod, she  knew,  could  not  be  more  than  a  few 
yards  distant,  but  surrounded  by  these  enchanted 
walls  which  ever  receded,  yet  always  closed  about 
her  she  must  only  wander  helplessly  and  find  it  by 
mere  chance.  And  suppose  she  found  it,  and  sup- 
pose she  secured  the  object  of  her  search,  how,  in 

121 


THE  LUCKY   PIECE 

this  blind  spot,  would  she  find  her  way  back  to 
the  trail  ?  She  recalled  now  what  Robin  had  said 
of  keeping  the  trail  in  the  fog.  Her  heart  became 
cold — numb.  The  chill  mist  had  crept  into  her 
very  veins.  She  was  lost — lost  as  men  have  been 
lost  in  the  snow — to  die  almost  within  their  own 
door-yards.  If  this  dread  cloud  would  only  pass, 
all  would  be  well,  but  she  remembered,  too,  hope- 
lessly enough,  that  she  had  told  no  one  of  her 
venture,  that  no  one  would  know  where  to  seek 
her. 

And  now  the  sun,  also,  must  be  obscured,  for 
the  world  was  darkening.  An  air  that  pierced 
her  very  marrow  blew  across  the  mountain  and 
a  drop  of  rain  struck  her  cheek.  Oh,  it  would  be 
wretched  without  shelter  to  face  a  storm  in  that 
bleak  spot.  She  must  at  least  try — she  must 
make  every  effort  to  find  the  trail.  She  set  out 
in  what  she  believed  to  be  a  wide  circuit  of  the 
peak,  and  was  suddenly  rejoiced  to  come  upon 
one  of  the  little  piles  of  stones  which  she  thought 
must  be  one  of  the  cairns,  leading  to  the  trail. 
But  which  way  must  she  look  for  the  next  ?  She 
strained  her  eyes  through  the  milky  gloom,  but 
could  distinguish  nothing  beyond  a  few  yards 
of  granite  at  her  feet.  It  did  not  avail  her  to  re- 

122 


WHAT   CAME  OUT   OF  THE   MIST 

main  by  the  cairn,  yet  she  dreaded  to  leave  a  spot 
which  was  at  least  a  point  in  the  human  path. 
She  did  so,  at  last,  only  to  wander  down  into  an 
unmarked  waste,  to  be  brought  all  at  once  against 
a  segment  of  the  scrub-oak  forest  and  to  find  be- 
fore her  a  sort  of  opening  which  she  thought 
might  be  the  trail.  Eagerly  in  the  gathering 
gloom  she  examined  the  face  of  the  granite  for 
some  trace  of  human  foot  and  imagined  she  could 
make  out  a  mark  here  and  there  as  of  boot  nails. 
Then  she  came  to  a  bit  of  grass  that  seemed  tram- 
pled down.  Her  heart  leaped.  Oh,  this  must  be 
the  trail,  after  all ! 

She  hastened  forward,  half  running  in  her  eag- 
erness. Branches  slapped  and  tore  at  her  gar- 
ments— long,  tenuous  filaments,  wet  and  web-like, 
drew  across  her  face.  Twice  she  fell  and  bruised 
herself  cruelly.  And  when  she  rose  the  second 
time,  her  heart  stopped  with  fear,  for  she  lay  just 
on  the  edge  of  a  ghastly  precipice — the  bottom  of 
which  was  lost  in  mist  and  shadows.  It  had  only 
been  a  false  trail,  after  all.  Weak  and  trembling 
she  made  her  way  back  to  the  open  summit,  fear- 
ing even  that  she  might  miss  this  now  and  so  be 
without  the  last  hope  of  finding  the  way,  or  of 
being  found  at  last  herself. 
123 


THE  LUCKY  PIECE 

Back  on  the  solid  granite  once  more,  she  made 
a  feeble  effort  to  find  one  of  the  cairns,  or  the 
tripod,  anything  that  had  known  the  human  touch. 
But  now  into  her  confused  senses  came  the  recol- 
lection that  many  parties  climbed  Mclntyre,  and 
she  thought  that  one  such  might  have  chosen  to- 
day and  be  somewhere  within  call.  She  stood  still 
to  listen  for  possible  voices,  but  there  was  no 
sound,  and  the  bitter  air  across  the  summit  made 
her  shrink  and  tremble.  Then  she  uttered  a  loud, 
long,  "Hoo-oo-woo-o !"  a  call  she  had  learned 
of  mountaineers  as  a  child.  She  listened  breath- 
lessly for  an  answer.  It  was  no  use.  Yet  she 
would  call  again — at  least  it  was  an  effort — a  last 
hope. 

"Hoo-oo-woo-oo !"  and  again  "Hoo-oo-woo- 
oo !"  And  then  her  very  pulses  ceased,  for 
somewhere,  far  away  it  seemed,  from  behind  that 
wall  of  white  her  ear  caught  an  answering  cry. 
Once  more  she  called — this  time  wildly,  with 
every  bit  of  power  she  could  summon.  Once 
more  came  the  answering  "Hoo-oo-woo-oo!"  and 
now  it  seemed  much  nearer. 

She  started  to  run  in  the  direction  of  the  voice, 
stopping  every  few  steps  to  call,  and  to  hear  the 
reassuring  reply.  She  was  at  the  brushy  edge  of 
124 


WHAT   CAME  OUT   OF   THE   MIST 

the  summit  when  through  the  mist  came  the 
words — it  was  a  man's  voice,  and  it  made  her 
heart  leap 

"Stay  where  you  are!  Don't  move — I  will 
come  to  you !" 

She  stood  still,  for  in  that  voice  there  was  a 
commanding  tone  which  she  was  only  too  eager 
to  obey.  She  called  again  and  again,  but  she 
waited,  and  all  at  once,  right  in  front  of  her  it 
seemed,  the  voice  said : 

"Well,  Conny,  it's  a  good  thing  I  found  you. 
If  you  had  played  around  here  much  longer  you 
might  have  got  wet." 

But  Constance  was  in  no  mood  to  take  the  mat- 
ter lightly. 

"Frank !  Oh,  Frank !"  she  cried,  and  half  run- 
ning, half  reeling  forward,  she  fell  into  his  arms. 

And  then  for  a  little  she  gave  way  and  sobbed 
on  his  shoulder,  just  as  any  girl  might  have  done 
who  had  been  lost  and  miserable  and  had  all  at 
once  found  the  shoulder  of  a  man  she  loved. 
Then,  brokenly 

"Oh,  Frank — how  did  you  know  Twas  here?" 

His  arm  was  about  her  and  he  was  holding  her 
close.  But  for  the  rest,  he  was  determined  to 
treat  it  lightly. 

125 


THE  LUCKY   PIECE 

"Well,  you  know,"  he  said,  "you  made  a  good 
deal  of  noise  about  it,  and  I  thought  I  recognized 
the  tones." 

"But  how  did  you  come  to  set  out  to  look  for 
me?  How  did  you  know  that  I  came?  Oh,  it 
was  brave  of  you — in  this  awful  fog  and  with  no 
guide !" 

She  believed,  then,  that  he  had  set  out  pur- 
posely to  search  for  her.  He  would  let  her  think 
so  for  the  moment. 

"Why,  that's  nothing,"  he  said;  "a  little  run 
up  the  mountain  is  just  fun  for  me,  and  as  for 
fogs,  I've  always  had  a  weakness  for  fogs  since 
a  winter  in  London.  I  didn't  really  know  you 
were  up  here,  but  that  might  be  the  natural  con- 
clusion if  you  weren't  at  home,  or  at  the  Lodge 
— after  what  happened  yesterday,  of  course." 

"Oh,  Frank,  forgive  me — I  was  so  horrid  yes- 
terday." 

"Don't  mention  it — I  didn't  give  it  a  second 
thought." 

"But,  Frank — "  then  suddenly  she  stopped, 
for  her  eye  had  caught  the  basket,  and  the  great 
fish  dangling  at  his  side.  "Frank !"  she  conclud- 
ed, "where  in  the  world  did  you  get  that  enor- 
mous trout?" 

126 


WHAT   CAME   OUT   OF   THE  MIST 

It  was  no  use  after  that,  so  he  confessed  and 
briefly  told  her  the  tale — how  it  was  by  accident 
that  he  had  found  her — how  he  had  set  out  at 
daybreak  to  find  the  wonderful  flower. 

"And  haven't  you  found  it  either?"  he  asked, 
glancing  down  at  her  basket. 

Then,  in  turn,  she  told  how  she  had  missed 
the  tripod  just  as  the  fog  came  down  and  could 
not  get  near  it  again. 

"And  oh,  I  have  lost  my  luncheon,  too,"  she  ex- 
claimed, "and  you  must  be  starving.  I  must  have 
lost  it  when  I  fell." 

"Then  we'll  waste  no  time  in  getting  home. 
It's  beginning  to  rain  a  little  now.  We'll  be 
pretty  miserable  if  we  stay  up  here  any  longer." 

"But  the  trail — how  will  you  find  it  in  this 
awful  mist?" 

"Well,  it  should  be  somewhere  to  the  west,  I 
think,  and  with  the  compass,  you  see " 

He  had  been  feeling  in  a  pocket  and  now  stared 
at  her  blankly. 

"I  am  afraid  I  have  lost  something,  too,"  he 
exclaimed,  "my  compass.  I  had  it  a  little  while 
ago  and  put  it  in  the  change  pocket  of  my  coat 
to  have  it  handy.  I  suppose  the  last  time  I  fell 
down,  it  slipped  out." 

127 


THE  LUCKY   PIECE 

He  searched  hastily  in  his  other  pockets,  but  to 
no  purpose. 

"Never  mind,"  he  concluded,  cheerfully.  "All 
ways  lead  down  the  mountain.  If  we  can't  find 
the  trail  we  can  at  least  go  down  till  we  find  some- 
thing. If  it's  a  brook  or  ravine  we'll  follow  that 
till  we  get  somewhere.  Anything  is  better  than 
shivering  here." 

They  set  out  in  the  direction  where  it  seemed 
to  Frank  the  trail  must  lie.  Suddenly  a  tall  shape 
loomed  up  before  them.  It  was  the  tripod. 

"Oh !"  Constance  gasped,  "and  I  hunted  for  it 
so  long!" 

"Those  flowers,  or  whatever  they  were,  should 
be  over  here,  I  think,"  Frank  said,  and  Constance 
produced  a  little  plan  which  Robin  had  given  her. 
But  when  in  the  semi-dusk  they  groped  to  the 
spot  only  some  wet,  blackened  pulp  remained  of 
the  curious  growth.  The  tender  flower  of  the 
peak  had  perhaps  bloomed  and  perished  in  a  day. 
Frank  lamented  this  misfortune,  but  Constance 
expressed  a  slighter  regret.  They  made  an  effort 
now  to  locate  the  cairns,  but  with  less  success. 
They  did  not  find  even  one,  and  after  wandering 
about  for  a  little  could  not  find  the  tripod  again, 
either. 

128 


WHAT   CAME  OUT   OF   THE  MIST 

"Never  mind,"  consoled  Frank,  "we'll  trust  a 
little  to  instinct.  Perhaps  it  will  lead  us  to  some- 
thing." In  fact,  they  came  presently  to  the  fringe 
of  scrub-oak,  and  to  what  seemed  an  open  way. 
But  Constance  shook  her  head. 

"I  do  not  think  this  is  the  beginning  of  the 
trail.  I  followed  just  such  an  opening,  and  it  led 
me  to  that  dreadful  cliff." 

Perhaps  it  was  the  same  false  lead,  for  pres- 
ently an  abyss  yawned  before  them. 

"I  shouldn't  wonder,"  speculated  Frank,  "if 
this  isn't  a  part  of  the  cliff  that  I  climbed.  If  we 
follow  along,  it  may  lead  us  to  the  same  place. 
Then  we  may  be  able  to  make  our  way  over  it 
and  down  to  the  river  and  so  home.  It's  a  long 
way,  but  a  sure  one,  if  we  can  only  find  it." 

They  proceeded  cautiously  along  the  brink  for 
the  light  was  dim  and  the  way  uncertain.  They 
grew  warmer  now,  for  they  were  away  from  the 
bitter  air  of  the  mountain  top,  and  in  constant 
motion.  When  they  had  followed  the  cliff  for 
perhaps  half  a  mile,  Frank  suddenly  stopped. 

"What  is  it?"  asked  Constance,  "is  this  where 
you  climbed  up  ?" 

Her  companion  only  pointed  over  the  brink. 

"Look,"  he  said,  "it  is  not  a  cliff,  here,  but  one 
129 


THE  LUCKY   PIECE 

side  of  a  chasm.     I  can  see  trees  on  the  other 
side." 

Sure  enough,  dimly  through  the  gloom,  not 
many  feet  away,  appeared  the  outline  of  timber  of 
considerable  growth,  showing  that  they  had  de- 
scended somewhat,  also  an  increased  depth  of  soil. 
It  was  further  evident  that  the  canon  was  get- 
ting narrower,  and  presently  they  came  upon  two 
logs,  laid  across  it  side  by  side,  forming  a  sort  of 
bridge.  Frank  knelt  and  examined  them  closely. 

"Some  one  has  used  this,"  he  said.  "This  may 
be  a  trail.  Do  you  think  we  can  get  over, 
Conny ?" 

The  girl  looked  at  the  narrow  crossing  and  at 
the  darkening  woods  beyond.  It  was  that  period 
of  stillness  and  deepening  gloom  which  precedes 
a  mountain  storm.  Still  early  in  the  day,  one 
might  easily  believe  that  night  was  descending. 
Constance  shuddered.  She  was  a  bit  nervous  and 
unstrung. 

"There  is  something  weird  about  it,"  she  said. 
"It  is  like  entering  the  enchanted  forest.  Oh,  I 
can  cross  well  enough — it  isn't  that,"  and  step- 
ping lightly  on  the  little  footway  she  walked  as 
steadily  and  firmly  as  did  Frank,  a  moment  later. 

"You're  a  brick,  Conny,"  he  said  heartily. 
130 


WHAT  CAME  OUT  OF  THE  MIST 

An  opening  in  the  bushes  at  the  end  of  the  little 
bridge  revealed  itself.  They  entered  and  pushed 
along,  for  the  way  led  downward.  The  darkness 
grew  momentarily.  Rain  was  beginning  to  fall. 
Yet  they  hurried  on,  single  file,  Frank  leading 
and  parting  the  vines  and  limbs  to  make  the  way 
easier  for  his  companion.  They  came  presently 
to  a  little  open  space,  where  suddenly  he  halted. 

"There's  a  light,"  he  said,  "it  must  be  a  camp." 

But  Constance  clung  to  his  arm.  It  was  now 
quite  dark  where  they  stood,  and  there  came  a 
low  roll  of  thunder  overhead. 

"Oh,  suppose  it  is  something  dreadful!"  she 
whispered — "a  robbers'  den,  or  moonshiners.  I've 
heard  of  such  things." 

"It's  more  likely  to  be  a  witch,"  said  Frank, 
"or  an  ogre,  but  I  think  we  must  risk  it." 

The  rain  came  faster  and  they  hurried  forward 
now  and  presently  stood  at  the  door  of  a  habita- 
tion, though  even  in  the  mist  and  gloom  it  im- 
pressed them  as  being  of  a  curious  sort.  There 
was  a  window  and  a  light,  certainly,  but  the  win- 
dow held  no  sash,  and  the  single  opening  was 
covered  with  a  sort  of  skin,  or  parchment. 
There  was  a  door,  too,  and  walls,  but  beyond  this 
the  structure  seemed  as  a  part  of  the  forest  itself, 


THE  LUCKY  PIECE 

with  growing  trees  forming  the  door  and  corner 
posts,  while  others  rose  apparently  from  the  roof. 
Further  outlines  of  this  unusual  structure  were 
lost  in  the  dimness.  Under  the  low,  sheltering 
eaves  they  hesitated. 

"Shall  we  knock?"  whispered  Constance.  "It 
is  all  so  queer — so  uncanny.  I  feel  as  if  it  might 
be  the  home  of  a  real  witch  or  magician,  or  some- 
thing like  that." 

"Then  we  may  at  least  learn  our  fate,"  Frank 
answered,  and  with  his  knuckles  struck  three  raps 
on  the  heavy  door. 

At  first  there  was  silence,  then  a  sound  of 
movement  within,  followed  by  a  shuffling  step.  A 
moment  later  the  heavy  door  swung  ajar,  and  in 
the  dim  light  from  within  Frank  and  Constance 
beheld  a  tall  bowed  figure  standing  in  the  open- 
ing. In  a  single  brief  glance  they  saw  that  it  was 
a  man — also  that  his  appearance,  like  that  of  his 
house,  was  unusual.  He  was  dressed  entirely  in 
skins.  His  beard  was  upon  his  breast,  and  his 
straggling  hair  fell  about  his  shoulders.  He  stood 
wordless,  silently  regarding  the  strangers,  and 
Frank  at  first  was  at  a  loss  for  utterance.  Then 
he  said,  hesitatingly: 

"We  missed  our  way  on  the  mountain.  We 
132 


WHAT  CAME  OUT  OF  THE  MIST 

want  shelter  from  the  storm  and  directions  to  the 
trail  that  leads  to  Spruce  Lodge." 

Still  the  tall  bent  figure  in  the  doorway  made 
no  movement  and  uttered  no  word.  They  could 
not  see  his  face,  but  Constance  felt  that  his  eyes 
were  fixed  upon  her,  and  she  clung  closer  to 
Frank's  arm.  Yet  when  the  strange  householder 
spoke  at  last  there  was  nothing  to  cause  fear, 
either  in  his  words  or  tone.  His  voice  was  gentle 
— not  much  above  a  whisper. 

"I  crave  your  pardon  if  I  seem  slow  of  hospi- 
tality," he  said,  quaintly,  "but  a  visitor  seldom 
comes  to  my  door.  Only  one  other  has  ever  found 
his  way  here,  and  he  comes  not  often."  He 
pushed  the  rude  door  wider  on  its  creaking  withe 
hinges.  "I  bid  you  welcome,"  he  added,  then,  as 
Constance  came  more  fully  into  the  light  shed  by 
a  burning  pine  knot  and  an  open  fire,  he  stopped, 
stared  at  her  still  more  fixedly  and  muttered 
something  under  his  breath.  But  a  moment  later 
he  said  gently,  his  voice  barely  more  than  a  whis- 
per :  "I  pray  you  will  pardon  my  staring,  but  in 
that  light  just  now  you  recalled  some  one — a 
woman  it  was — I  used  to  know.  Besides,  I  have 
not  been  face  to  face  with  any  woman  for  nearly 
a  score  of  years." 

133 


CHAPTER  IX 

A  SHELTER  IN  THE  FOREST 

CERTAINLY  the  house  of  the  hermit,  for  such  he 
undoubtedly  was,  proved  a  remarkable  place. 
There  was  no  regular  form  to  the  room  in  which 
Frank  and  Constance  found  themselves,  nor  could 
they  judge  as  to  its  size.  Its  outlines  blended  into 
vague  shadows,  evidently  conforming  to  the  posi- 
tion of  the  growing  trees  which  constituted  its 
supports.  The  walls  were  composed  of  logs  of 
varying  lengths,  adjusted  to  the  spaces  between 
the  trees,  intermingled  with  stones  and  smaller 
branches,  the  whole  cemented  or  mud-plastered 
together  in  a  concrete  mass.  At  the  corner  of  the 
fireplace,  and  used  as  one  end  of  it,  was  a  larger 
flat  stone,  which  became  not  only  a  part  of  the 
wall  but  served  as  a  wide  shelf  or  table  within, 
and  this,  covered  with  skins,  supported  a  large 
wooden  bowl  of  nuts,  a  stone  hammer  somewhat 
resembling  a  tomahawk,  a  few  well-worn  books, 
also  a  field  glass  in  a  leather  case,  such  as  tourists 
use.  On  a  heavy  rustic  mantel  were  numerous 
bits  and  tokens  of  the  forest,  and  suspended  above 
134 


A  SHELTER   IN   THE  FOREST 

it,  on  wooden  hooks,  was  a  handsome  rifle.  On 
the  hearth  below  was  a  welcome  blaze,  with  a 
heavy  wooden  settle,  wide  of  seat,  upon  which 
skins  were  thrown,  drawn  up  comfortably  before 
the  fire.  The  other  furniture  in  the  room  consisted 
of  a  high-backed  armchair,  a  wooden  table,  and 
what  might  have  been  a  bench,  outlined  in  the  dim- 
ness of  a  far  corner  where  the  ceiling  seemed  to 
descend  almost  to  the  ground,  and  did,  in  fact,  join 
the  top  of  a  low  mound  which  formed  the  wall 
on  that  side.  But  what  seemed  most  remarkable 
in  this  singular  dwelling-place  were  the  living 
trees  which  here  and  there  like  columns  supported 
the  roof.  The  heavy  riven  shingles  and  a  thatch- 
ing of  twisted  grass  had  been  fitted  closely  about 
them  above,  and  the  hewn  or  puncheon  floor  was 
carefully  joined  around  them  below.  Lower 
limbs  had  been  converted  into  convenient  hooks, 
while  attached  here  and  there  near  the  ceiling 
were  several  rustic,  nest-like  receptacles,  showing 
a  fringe  of  grass  and  leaves.  As  Frank  and  Con- 
stance entered  this  strange  shelter  there  had  been 
a  light  scurrying  of  shadowy  forms,  a  whisking 
into  these  safe  retreats,  and  now,  as  the  strangers 
stood  in  the  cheerful  glow  of  the  fire  and  the  sput- 
tering pine-knot,  they  were  regarded  not  only  by 
135 


THE  LUCKY   PIECE 

the  hermit,  but  by  a  score  or  more  of  other  half- 
curious,  half-timid  eyes  that  shone  bright  out  of 
the  vague  dimness  behind.  The  ghostly  scamper- 
ing, the  shadowy  flitting,  and  a  small,  subdued 
chatter  from  the  dusk  enhanced  in  the  minds  of 
the  visitors  a  certain  weird  impression  of  the 
place  and  constrained  their  speech.  There  was  no 
sensation  of  fear.  It  was  only  a  vague  uneasi- 
ness, or  rather  that  they  felt  themselves  harsh 
and  unwarranted  intruders  upon  a  habitation  and 
a  life  in  which  they  had  no  part.  Their  host 
broke  the  silence. 

"You  must  needs  pardon  the  demeanor  of  my 
little  friends,"  he  said.  "They  are  unaccustomed 
to  strangers."  He  indicated  the  settle,  and  added : 
"Be  seated.  You  are  weary,  without  doubt,  and 
your  clothes  seem  damp."  Then  he  noticed  the 
basket  and  the  large  fish  at  Frank's  belt.  "A  fine 
trout,"  he  said ;  "I  have  not  seen  so  large  a  one 
for  years." 

Frank  nodded  with  an  anxious  interest. 

"Would  you  like  it?"  he  asked.  "I  have  a 
basketful  besides,  and  would  it  be  possible — 
could  we,  I  mean,  manage  to  cook  a  few  of  them  ? 
I  am  very  hungry,  and  I  am  sure  my  companion, 
Miss  Deane,  would  like  a  bite  also." 
136 


A   SHELTER   IN   THE   FOREST 

Constance  had  dropped  down  on  the  settle,  and 
was  leaning  toward  the  fire — her  hands  outspread 
before  it. 

"I  am  famished,"  she  confessed,  and  added, 
"oh,  and  will  you  let  me  cook  the  fish?  I  can 
do  it  quite  well." 

The  hermit  did  not  immediately  reply  to  the 
question. 

"Miss  Deane,"  he  mused ;  "that  is  your  name, 
then  ?" 

"Yes,  Constance  Deane,  and  this  is  Mr.  Frank 
Weatherby.  We  have  been  lost  on  the  mountain 
all  day  without  food.  We  shall  be  so  thankful  if 
you  will  let  us  prepare  something,  and  will  then 
put  us  on  the  trail  that  leads  to  Spruce  Lodge." 

The  hermit  stirred  the  fire  to  a  brighter  blaze 
and  laid  on  a  fresh  piece  of  wood. 

"That  will  I  do  right  gladly,"  he  said,  "if  you 
will  accept  my  humble  ways.  Let  me  take  the 
basket ;  I  will  set  about  the  matter." 

Gladly  enough  Frank  unloosed  his  burden,  and 
surrendered  the  big  trout  and  the  basket  to  his 
host.  As  the  latter  turned  away  from  the  fire 
a  dozen  little  forms  frisked  out  of  the  shadows 
behind  and  ran  over  him  lightly,  climbing  to  his 
shoulders,  into  his  pockets,  clinging  on  to  his  cur- 
137 


THE  LUCKY   PIECE 

ious  dress  wherever  possible — chattering,  and 
still  regarding  the  strange  intruders  with  bright, 
inquisitive  eyes.  They  were  tiny  red  squirrels,  it 
seemed,  and  their  home  was  here  in  this  nonde- 
script dwelling  with  this  eccentric  man.  Suddenly 
the  hermit  spoke  to  them — an  unknown  word 
with  queer  intonation.  In  an  instant  the  little 
bevy  of  chatterers  leaped  away  from  him,  scamp- 
ering back  to  their  retreats.  Frank,  who  stood 
watching,  saw  a  number  of  them  go  racing  to  a 
tree  of  goodly  size  and  disappear  into  a  hole  near 
the  floor. 

The  hermit  turned,  smiling  a  little,  and  the 
firelight  fell  on  his  face.  For  the  first  time 
Frank  noticed  the  refinement  and  delicacy  of 
the  meager  features.  The  hermit  said : 

"That  is  their  outlet.  The  tree  is  hollow,  and 
there  is  another  opening  above  the  roof.  In  win- 
ter the  birds  use  it,  too." 

He  disappeared  now  into  what  seemed  to  be 
another  apartment,  shutting  a  door  behind. 
Frank  dropped  down  on  the  settle  by  Constance, 
thoroughly  tired,  stretched  out  his  legs,  and  gave 
himself  up  to  the  comfort  of  the  warm  glow. 

"Isn't  it  all  wonderful?"  murmured  Constance. 
"It  is  just  a  dream,  of  course.  We  are  not  really 
138 


A   SHELTER   IN   THE   FOREST 

here,  and  I  shall  wake  up  presently.  I  had  just 
such  fancies  when  I  was  a  child.  Perhaps  I  am 
still  wandering  in  that  awful  mist,  and  this  is  the 
delirium.  Oh,  are  you  sure  we  are  really  here?" 

"Quite  sure,"  said  Frank.  "And  it  seems  just 
a  matter  of  course  to  me.  I  have  known  all  along 
that  this  wood  was  full  of  mysteries — enchant- 
ments, and  hermits,  and  the  like.  Probably  there 
are  many  such  things  if  we  knew  where  to  look 
for  them." 

The  girl's  voice  dropped  still  lower. 

"How  quaintly  he  talks.  It  is  as  if  he  had 
stepped  out  of  some  old  book." 

Frank  nodded  toward  the  stone  shelf  by  the 
fire. 

"He  lives  chiefly  in  books,  I  fancy,  having  had 
but  one  other  visitor." 

The  young  man  lifted  one  of  the  worn  vol- 
umes and  held  it  to  the  light.  It  was  a  copy  of 
Shakespeare's  works — a  thick  book,  being  a 
complete  edition  of  the  plays.  He  laid  it  back 
tenderly. 

"He  dwells  with  the  men  and  women  of  the 
master,"  he  said,  softly. 

There  followed  a  little  period  of  silence,  during 
which  they  drank  in  the  cheer  and  comfort  of  the 
139 


THE  LUCKY  PIECE 

blazing  hearth.  Outside,  the  thunder  rolled  heav- 
ily now  and  then,  and  the  rain  beat  against  the 
door.  What  did  it  matter  ?  They  were  safe  and 
sheltered,  and  together.  Constance  asked  pres- 
ently :  "What  time  is  it  ?"  And,  looking  at  his 
watch,  Frank  replied : 

"A  little  after  three.  An  hour  ago  we  were 
wandering  up  there  in  the  mist.  It  seems  a  year 
since  then,  and  a  lifetime  since  I  took  that  big 
trout." 

"It  is  ages  since  I  started  this  morning,"  mused 
Constance.  "Yet  we  divide  each  day  into  the 
same  measurements,  and  by  the  clock  it  is  only 
a  little  more  than  six  hours." 

"It  is  nine  since  I  left  the  Lodge,"  reflected 
Frank,  "after  a  very  light  and  informal  break- 
fast at  the  kitchen  door.  Yes,  I  am  willing  to 
confess  that  such  time  should  not  be  measured  in 
the  ordinary  way." 

There  was  a  sharper  crash  of  thunder  and  a 
heavier  gust  of  rain.  Then  a  fierce  downpour 
that  came  to  them  in  a  steady,  muffled  roar. 

"When  shall  we  get  home?"  Constance  asked, 
anxiously. 

"We  won't  worry,  now.  Likely  this  is  only  a 
shower.  It  will  not  take  long  to  get  down  the 
140 


A   SHELTER   IN   THE   FOREST 

mountain,  once  we're  in  the  trail,  and  it's  light, 
you  know,  until  seven." 

The  door  behind  was  pushed  open  and  the  her- 
mit re-entered.  He  bore  a  flat  stone  and  a  wood- 
en bowl,  and  knelt  down  with  them  before  the  fire. 
The  glowing  embers  he  heaped  together  and  with 
the  aid  of  a  large  pebble  set  the  flat  stone  at  an 
angle  before  them.  Then  from  the  wooden  bowl 
he  emptied  a  thick  paste  of  coarse  meal  upon  the 
baking  stone,  and  smoothed  it  with  a  wooden 
paddle. 

Rising  he  said: 

"I  fear  my  rude  ways  will  not  appetize  you, 
but  I  can  only  offer  you  what  cheer  I  have." 

The  aroma  of  the  cooking  meal  began  to  fill 
the  room. 

"Please  don't  apologize,"  pleaded  Constance. 
"My  only  hope  is  that  I  can  restrain  myself  until 
the  food  is  ready." 

"I'll  ask  you  to  watch  the  bread  for  a  moment," 
the  hermit  said,  turning  the  stone  a  little. 

"And  if  I  let  it  burn  you  may  punish  me  as  the 
goodwife  did  King  Alfred,"  answered  Constance. 
Then  a  glow  came  into  her  cheeks  that  was  not  all 
of  the  fire,  for  the  man's  eyes — they  were  deep, 
burning  eyes — were  fixed  upon  her,  and  he 
141 


THE  LUCKY   PIECE 

seemed  to  hang  on  her  every  word.  Yet  he 
smiled  without  replying,  and  again  disappeared. 

"Conny,"  admonished  Frank,  "if  you  let  any- 
thing happen  to  that  cake  I'll  eat  the  stone." 

So  they  watched  the  pone  carefully,  turning  it 
now  and  then,  though  the  embers  glowed  very 
hot  and  a  certain  skill  was  necessary. 

The  hermit  returned  presently  with  a  number 
of  the  trout  dressed,  and  these  were  in  a  frying- 
pan  that  had  a  long  wooden  handle,  which  Con- 
stance and  Frank  held  between  them,  while  their 
host  installed  two  large  potatoes  in  the  hot  ashes. 
Then  he  went  away  for  a  little  and  placed  some 
things  on  the  table  in  the  middle  of  the  room,  re- 
turning now  and  then  to  superintend  matters. 
And  presently  the  fish  and  the  cakes  and  the  po- 
tatoes were  ready,  and  the  ravenous  wanderers 
did  not  wait  to  be  invited  twice  to  partake  of 
them.  The  thunder  still  rolled  at  intervals  and 
the  rain  still  beat  at  the  door,  but  they  did  not 
heed.  Within,  the  cheer,  if  not  luxurious,  was 
plenteous  and  grateful.  The  table  furnishings 
were  rude  and  chiefly  of  home  make.  But  the 
guests  were  young,  strong  of  health  and  appetite, 
and  no  king's  table  could  have  supplied  goodlier 
food.  Oh,  never  were  there  such  trout  as  those, 
142 


A  SHELTER   IN   THE   FOREST 

never  such  baked  potatoes,  nor  never  such  hot, 
delicious  hoecake.  And  beside  each  plate  stood 
a  bowl  of  fruit — berries — delicious  fresh  raspber- 
ries of  the  hills. 

Presently  their  host  poured  a  steaming  liquid 
into  each  of  the  empty  cups  by  their  plates. 

"Perhaps  you  will  not  relish  my  tea,"  he  said, 
"but  it  is  soothing  and  not  harmful.  It  is  drawn 
from  certain  roots  and  herbs  I  have  gathered,  and 
it  is  not  ill-tasting.  Here  is  sweet,  also;  made 
from  the  maple  tree." 

An  aromatic  odor  arose  from  the  cups,  and, 
when  Constance  tasted  the  beverage  and  added  a 
lump  of  the  sugar,  she  declared  the  result  deli- 
cious— a  decision  in  which  Frank  willingly  con- 
curred. 

The  host  himself  did  not  join  the  feast,  and 
presently  fell  to  cooking  another  pan  of  trout. 
It  was  a  marvel  how  they  disappeared.  Even  the 
squirrels  came  out  of  their  hiding  places  to  wit- 
ness this  wonderful  feasting,  a  few  bolder  ones 
leaping  upon  the  table,  as  was  their  wont,  to  help 
themselves  from  a  large  bowl  of  cracked  nuts. 
And  all  this  delighted  the  visitors.  Everything 
was  so  extraordinary,  so  simple  and  near  to  na- 
ture, so  savoring  of  the  romance  of  the  old  days. 
143 


THE  LUCKY   PIECE 

This  wide,  rambling  room  with  its  recesses  lost 
in  the  shadows ;  the  low,  dim  roof  supported  by 
its  living  columns ;  the  glowing  fireplace  and  the 
blazing  knot;  the  wild  pelts  scattered  here  and 
there,  and  the  curious  skin-clad  figure  in  the  fire- 
light— certainly  these  were  things  to  stir  delight- 
fully the  heart  of  youth,  to  set  curious  fancies 
flitting  through  the  brain. 

"Oh,"  murmured  Constance,  "I  wish  we 
might  stay  in  a  place  like  this  forever!"  Then, 
reddening,  added  hastily,  "I  mean — I  mean " 

"Yes,"  agreed  Frank,  "I  mean  that,  too — and 
I  wish  just  the  same.  We  could  have  fish  every 
day,  and  such  hoecake,  and  this  nice  tea,  and  I 
would  pick  berries  like  these,  and  you  could 
gather  mushrooms.  And  we  would  have  squir- 
rels to  amuse  us,  and  you  would  read  to  me,  and 
perhaps  I  should  write  poems  of  the  hills  and  the 
storms  and  the  haunted  woods,  and  we  could 
live  so  close  to  nature  and  drink  so  deeply  of  its 
ever  renewing  youth  that  old  age  could  not  find 
us,  and  we  should  live  on  and  on  and  be  always 
happy — happy  ever  after." 

The  girl's  hand  lay  upon  the  table,  and  when 
his  heavier  palm  closed  over  it  she  did  not  draw 
it  away. 

144 


A  SHELTER   IN   THE  FOREST 

"I  can  almost  love  you  when  you  are  like  this," 
she  whispered. 

"And  if  I  am  always  like  this ?" 

They  spoke  very  low,  and  the  hermit  sat  in  the 
high-back  chair,  bowed  and  staring  into  the  blaze. 
Yet  perhaps  something  of  what  they  said  drifted 
to  his  ear — perhaps  it  was  only  old  and  troubling 
memories  stirring  within  him  that  caused  him  to 
rise  and  walk  back  and  forth  before  the  fire. 

His  guests  had  finished  now,  and  they  came 
back  presently  to  the  big,  deep  settle,  happy  in  the 
comfort  of  plenteous  food,  the  warmth  and  the 
cosy  seat,  and  the  wild  unconvention  of  it  all. 
The  beat  of  the  rain  did  not  trouble  them.  Se- 
cretly they  were  glad  of  any  excuse  for  remaining 
by  the  hermit's  hearth. 

Their  host  did  not  appear  to  notice  them  at 
first,  but  paced  a  turn  up  and  down,  then  seated 
himself  in  the  high-backed  chair  and  gazed  into 
the  embers.  A  bevy  of  the  little  squirrels  crept  up 
and  scaled  his  knees  and  shoulders,  but  with  that 
curious  note  of  warning  he  sent  them  scampering. 
The  pine  knot  sputtered  low  and  he  tossed  it 
among  the  coals,  where  it  renewed  its  blaze.  For 
a  time  there  was  silence,  with  only  the  rain  sob- 
bing at  the  door.  Then  by  and  by — very,  very 
145 


THE  LUCKY   PIECE 

softly,  as  one  who  muses  aloud — he  spoke :  "I,  too, 
have  had  my  dreams — dreams  which  were  ever 
of  happiness  for  me — and  for  another ;  happiness 
that  would  not  end,  yet  which  was  to  have  no 
more  than  its  rare  beginning. 

"That  was  a  long  time  ago — as  many  as  thirty 
years,  maybe.  I  have  kept  but  a  poor  account 
of  time,  for  what  did  it  matter  here?" 

He  turned  a  little  to  Constance. 

"Your  face  and  voice,  young  lady,  bring  it  all 
back  now,  and  stir  me  to  speak  of  it  again — the 
things  of  which  I  have  spoken  to  no  one  before — 
not  even  to  Robin." 

"To  Robin!"  The  words  came  involuntarily 
from  Constance. 

"Yes,  Robin  Farnham,  now  of  the  Lodge.  He 
found  his  way  here  once,  just  as  you  did.  It 
was  in  his  early  days  on  the  mountains,  and  he 
came  to  me  out  of  a  white  mist,  just  as  you  came, 
and  I  knew  him  for  her  son." 

Constance  started,  but  the  words  on  her  lips 
were  not  uttered. 

"I  knew  him  for  her  son,"  the  hermit  contin- 
ued, "even  before  he  told  me  his  name,  for  he  was 
her  very  picture,  and  his  voice — the  voice  of  a 
boy — was  her  voice.  He  brought  her  back  to  me 
146 


A  SHELTER  IN  THE  FOREST 

— he  made  her  live  again — here,  in  this  isolated 
spot,  even  as  she  had  lived  in  my  dreams — even 
as  a  look  in  your  face  and  a  tone  in  your  voice 
have  made  her  live  for  me  again  to-day." 

There  was  something  in  the  intensity  of  the 
man's  low  speech,  almost  more  than  in  what  he 
said,  to  make  the  listener  hang  upon  his  words. 
Frank,  who  had  drawn  near  Constance,  felt  that 
she  was  trembling,  and  he  laid  his  hand  firmly 
over  hers,  where  it  rested  on  the  seat  beside  him. 

"Yet  I  never  told  him,"  the  voice  went  on,  "I 
never  told  Robin  that  I  knew  him — I  never  spoke 
his  mother's  name.  For  I  had  a  fear  that  it  might 
sadden  him — that  the  story  might  send  him  away 
from  me.  And  I  could  have  told  nothing  unless 
I  told  it  all,  and  there  was  no  need.  So  I  spoke 
to  him  no  word  of  her,  and  I  pledged  him  to  speak 
to  no  one  of  me.  For  if  men  knew,  the  curious 
would  come  and  I  would  never  have  my  life  the 
same  again.  So  I  made  him  promise,  and  after 
that  first  time  he  came  as  he  chose.  And  when 
he  is  here  she  who  was  a  part  of  my  happy  dream 
lives  again  in  him.  And  to  you  I  may  speak  of 
her,  for  to  you  it  does  not  matter,  and  it  is  in  my 
heart  now,  when  my  days  are  not  many,  to  recall 
old  dreams." 

H7 


CHAPTER   X 
THE  HERMIT'S  STORY 

THE  hermit  paused  and  gazed  into  the  bed  of 
coals  on  the  hearth.  His  listeners  waited  without 
speaking.  Constance  did  not  move — scarcely  did 
she  breathe. 

"As  I  said,  it  may  have  been  thirty  years  ago," 
the  gentle  voice  continued.  "It  may  have  been 
more  than  that — I  do  not  know.  It  was  on  the 
Sound  shore,  in  one  of  the  pretty  villages  there 
— it  does  not  matter  which. 

"I  lived  with  my  uncle  in  the  adjoining  village. 
Both  my  parents  were  dead — he  was  my  guard- 
ian. In  the  winter,  when  the  snow  fell,  there 
was  merry-making  between  these  villages.  We 
drove  back  and  forth  in  sleighs,  and  there  were 
nights  along  the  Sound  when  the  moon  path 
followed  on  the  water  and  the  snow,  and  all  the 
hills  were  white,  and  the  bells  jingled,  and  hearts 
were  gay  and  young. 

"It  was  on  such  a  night  that  I  met  her  who  was 
to  become  Robin's  mother.  The  gathering  was 
in  our  village  that  night,  and,  being  very  young, 
148 


THE  HERMIT'S  STORY 

she  had  come  as  one  of  a  merry  sleighful.  Half 
way  to  our  village  their  sleigh  had  broken  down, 
and  the  merry  makers  had  gayly  walked  the  re- 
mainder, trusting  to  our  hospitality  to  return 
them  to  their  homes.  I  was  one  of  those  to  wel- 
come them  and  to  promise  conveyance,  and  so  it 
was  that  I  met  her,  and  from  that  moment  there 
was  nothing  in  all  the  world  for  me  but  her." 

The  hermit  lifted  his  eyes  from  the  fire  and 
looked  at  Constance. 

"My  girl,"  he  said,  "there  are  turns  of  your 
face  and  tones  of  your  voice  that  carry  me  back 
to  that  night.  But  Robin,  when  he  first  came  here 
to  my,  door,  a  stripling,  he  was  her  very  self. 

"I  recall  nothing  of  that  first  meeting  but  her. 
I  saw  nothing  but  her.  I  think  we  danced — we 
may  have  played  games — it  did  not  matter. 
There  was  nothing  for  me  but  her  face.  When 
it  was  over,  I  took  her  in  my  cutter  and  we  drove 
together  across  the  snow — along  the  moonlit 
shore.  I  do  not  remember  what  we  said,  but  I 
think  it  was  very  little.  There  was  no  need. 
When  I  parted  from  her  that  night  the  heritage 
of  eternity  was  ours — the  law  that  binds  the  uni- 
verse was  our  law,  and  the  morning  stars  sang 
together  as  I  drove  homeward  across  the  hills. 
149 


THE  LUCKY   PIECE 

"That  winter  and  no  more  holds  my  happiness. 
Yet  if  all  eternity  holds  no  more  for  me  than  that, 
still  have  I  been  blest  as  few  have  been  blest,  and 
if  I  have  paid  the  price  and  still  must  pay,  then 
will  I  pay  with  gladness,  feeling  only  that  the 
price  of  heaven  is  still  too  small,  and  eternity  not 
too  long  for  my  gratitude." 

The  hermit's  voice  had  fallen  quite  to  a  whis- 
per, and  he  was  as  one  who  muses  aloud  upon  a 
scene  rehearsed  times  innumerable.  Yet  in  the 
stillness  of  that  dim  room  every  syllable  was  dis- 
tinct, and  his  listeners  waited,  breathless,  at  each 
pause  for  him  to  continue.  Into  Frank's  eyes  had 
come  the  far-away  look  of  one  who  follows  in 
fancy  an  old  tale,  but  the  eyes  of  Constance  shone 
with  an  eager  light  and  her  face  was  tense  and 
white  against  the  darkness. 

"It  was  only  that  winter.  When  the  spring 
came  and  the  wild  apple  was  in  bloom,  and  my 
veins  were  all  a-tingle  with  new  joy,  I  went  one 
day  to  tell  her  father  of  our  love.  Oh,  I  was  not 
afraid.  I  have  read  of  trembling  lovers  and  halt- 
ing words.  For  me  the  moments  wore  laggingly 
until  he  came,  and  then  I  overflowed  like  any 
other  brook  that  breaks  its  dam  in  spring. 

"And  he — he  listened,  saying  not  a  single 
150 


THE   HERMIT'S   STORY 

word ;  but  as  I  talked  his  eyes  fell,  and  I  saw  tears 
gather  under  his  lids.  Then  at  last  they  rolled 
down  his  cheeks  and  he  bowed  his  head  and  wept. 
And  then  I  did  not  speak  further,  but  waited, 
while  a  dread  that  was  cold  like  death  grew  slow 
upon  me.  When  he  lifted  his  head  he  came  and 
sat  by  me  and  took  my  hand.  'My  boy,'  he  said, 
'your  father  was  my  friend.  I  held  his  hand  when 
he  died,  and  a  year  later  I  followed  your  mother 
to  her  grave.  You  were  then  a  little  blue-eyed 
fellow,  and  my  heart  was  wrung  for  you.  It  was 
not  that  you  lacked  friends,  or  means,  for  there 
were  enough  of  both.  But,  oh,  my  boy,  there  was 
another  heritage !  Have  they  not  told  you  ?  Have 
you  never  learned  that  both  your  parents  were 
stricken  in  their  youth  by  that  scourge  of  this 
coast — that  fever  which  sets  a  foolish  glow  upon 
the  cheek  while  it  lays  waste  the  life  below  and 
fills  the  land  with  early  graves?  Oh,  my  lad! 
you  do  not  want  my  little  girl/  " 

The  hermit's  voice  died,  and  he  seemed  almost 
to  forget  his  listeners.  But  all  at  once  he  fixed 
his  eyes  on  Constance  as  if  he  would  burn  her 
through. 

"Child,"  he  said,  "as  you  look  now,  so  she 
looked  in  the  moment  of  our  parting.  Her  eyes 


THE  LUCKY   PIECE 

were  like  yours,  and  her  face,  God  help  me !  as  I 
saw  it  through  the  dark  that  last  night,  was  as 
your  face  is  now.  Then  I  went  away.  I  do  not 
remember  all  the  places,  but  they  were  in  many 
lands,  and  were  such  places  as  men  seek  who 
carry  my  curse.  I  never  wrote — I  never  saw  her, 
face  to  face,  again. 

"When  I  returned  her  father  was  dead,  and  she 
was  married — to  a  good  man,  they  told  me — 
and  there  was  a  child  that  bore  my  name,  Robin, 
for  I  had  been  called  Robin  Gray.  And  then 
there  came  a  time  when  a  stress  was  upon  the 
land — when  fortunes  tottered  and  men  walked 
the  streets  with  unseeing  eyes — when  his  wealth 
and  then  hers  vanished  like  smoke  in  the  wind — 
when  my  own  patrimony  became  but  worthless 
paper — a  mockery  of  scrolled  engravings  and 
gaudy  seals.  To  me  it  did  not  matter — nothing 
matters  to  one  doomed.  To  them  it  was  ship- 
wreck. John  Farnham,  a  high-strung,  impetuous 
man,  was  struck  down.  The  tension  of  those 
weeks,  and  the  final  blow,  broke  his  spirit  and  un- 
dermined his  strength.  They  had  only  a  pittance 
and  a  little  cottage  in  these  mountains,  which 
they  had  used  as  a  camp  for  summer  time.  It 
stood  then  where  it  stands  to-day,  on  the  North 
152 


THE   HERMIT'S   STORY 

Elba  road,  in  view  of  this  mountain  top.  There 
they  came  in  the  hope  that  Robin's  father  might 
regain  health  to  renew  the  fight.  There  they  re- 
mained, for  the  father  had  lost  courage  and  only 
found  a  little  health  by  tilling  the  few  acres  of 
ground  about  the  cottage.  There,  that  year,  a 
second  child — a  little  girl — was  born." 

It  had  grown  very  still  in  the  hermitage.  There 
was  only  a  drip  of  the  rain  outside — the  thunder 
had  rolled  away.  The  voice,  too,  ceased  for  a 
little,  as  if  from  weariness.  The  others  made 
no  sign,  but  it  seemed  to  Frank  that  the  hand 
locked  closely  in  his  had  become  quite  cold. 

"The  word  of  those  things  drifted  to  me,"  so 
the  tale  went  on,  "and  it  made  me  sad  that  with 
my  own  depleted  fortune  and  failing  health  I 
could  do  nothing  for  their  comfort  or  relief.  But 
one  day  my  physician  said  to  me  that  the  air  and 
the  altitude  of  these  mountains  had  been  found 
beneficial  for  those  stricken  like  me.  He  could 
not  know  how  his  words  made  my  heart  beat. 
Now,  indeed,  there  was  a  reason  for  my  coming 
— an  excuse  for  being  near  her — with  a  chance 
of  seeing  her,  it  might  be,  though  without  her 
knowledge.  For  I  decided  that  she  must  not 
know.  Already  she  had  enough  burden  without 
153 


THE  LUCKY   PIECE 

the  thought  that  I  was  near — without  the  sight 
of  my  doleful,  wasting  features. 

"So  I  sold  the  few  belongings  that  were  still 
mine — such  things  as  I  had  gathered  in  my  wan- 
derings— my  books,  save  those  I  loved  most  dear- 
ly— my  furnishings,  my  ornaments,  even  to  my 
apparel — and  with  the  money  I  bought  the  neces- 
saries of  mountain  life — implements,  rough  wear 
and  a  store  of  food.  These,  with  a  tent,  my  gun, 
the  few  remaining  volumes,  and  my  field  glass — 
the  companion  of  all  my  travels — I  brought  to 
the  hills." 

He  pointed  to  the  glass  and  the  volumes  lying 
on  the  stone  at  his  hand. 

"Those  have  been  my  life,"  he  went  on.  "The 
books  have  brought  me  a  world  wherein  there 
was  ever  a  goodly  company,  suited  to  my  mood. 
For  me,  in  that  world,  there  are  no  disappoint- 
ments nor  unfulfilled  dreams.  King,  lover,  cour- 
tier and  clown — how  often  at  my  bidding  have 
they  trooped  out  of  the  shadows  to  gather  with 
me  about  this  hearth!  Oh,  I  should  have  been 
poor  indeed  without  the  books!  Yet  the  glass 
has  been  to  me  even  more,  for  it  brought  me  her. 

"I  have  already  told  you  that  their  cottage 
could  be  seen  from  this  mountain  top.  I  learned 
154 


THE   HERMIT'S   STORY 

this  when  I  came  stealthily  to  the  hills  and  sought 
out  their  home,  and  some  spot  amid  the  over- 
hanging peaks  where  I  might  pitch  my  camp  and 
there  unseen  look  down  upon  her  life.  This  is 
the  place  I  found.  I  had  my  traps  borne  up  the 
trail  to  the  foot  of  the  little  fall,  as  if  I  would 
camp  there.  Then  when  the  guides  were  gone  I 
carried  them  here,  and  reared  my  small  establish- 
ment, away  from  the  track  of  hunters,  on  this 
high  finger  of  rock  which  commanded  the  valley 
and  her  home.  There  is  a  spring  here  and  a  bit 
of  fertile  land.  It  was  State  land  and  free,  and 
I  pitched  my  tent  here,  and  that  summer  I  cleared 
an  open  space  for  tillage  and  built  a  hut  for  the 
winter.  The  sturdy  labor  and  the  air  of  the  hills 
strengthened  my  arm  and  renewed  my  life.  But 
there  was  more  than  that.  For  often  there  came 
a  clear  day,  when  the  air  was  like  crystal  and 
other  peaks  drew  so  near  that  it  seemed  one  might 
reach  out  and  stroke  them  with  his  hand.  On 
such  a  day,  with  my  glass,  I  sought  a  near-by 
point  where  the  mountain's  elbow  jutted  out  into 
the  sky,  and  when  from  that  high  vantage  I  gazed 
down  on  the  roof  which  covered  her,  my  soul  was 
filled  with  strength  to  tarry  on.  For  distance  be- 
came as  nothing  to  my  magic  glass.  Three  miles 

155 


THE  LUCKY  PIECE 

it  may  be  as  the  crow  flies,  but  I  could  bring  the 
tiny  cottage  and  the  door-yard,  as  it  stood  there 
at  the  turn  of  the  road  above  the  little  hill,  so 
close  to  me  that  it  seemed  to  lie  almost  at  my 
very  feet." 

Again  the  speaker  rested  for  a  moment,  but 
presently  the  tale  went  on. 

"You  can  never  know  what  I  felt  when  I  first 
saw  her.  I  had  watched  for  her  often,  and  I 
think  she  had  been  ill.  I  had  seen  him  come  and 
go,  and  sometimes  I  had  seen  a  child — Robin  it 
was — playing  about  the  yard.  But  one  day  when 
I  had  gone  to  my  point  of  lookout  and  had  di- 
rected my  glass — there,  just  before  me,  she  stood. 
There  she  lived  and  moved — she  who  had  been, 
who  was  still  my  life — who  had  filled  my  being 
with  a  love  that  made  me  surrender  her  to  an- 
other, yet  had  lured  me  at  last  to  this  lonely  spot, 
forever  away  from  men,  only  that  I  might  now 
and  again  gaze  down  across  the  tree  tops,  and  all 
unseen,  unknown  to  her,  make  her  the  companion 
of  my  hermit  life. 

"She  walked  slowly  and  the  child  walked  with 
her,  holding  her  hand.  When  presently  she 
looked  toward  me,  I  started  and  shrank,  forget- 
ting for  the  moment  that  she  could  not  see  me. 
156 


THE  HERMIT'S  STORY 

Not  that  I  could  distinguish  her  features  at  such 
a  range,  only  her  dear  outline,  but  in  my  mind's 
eyes  her  face  was  there  before  me  just  as  I  had 
seen  it  that  last  time — just  as  I  have  seen  yours 
in  the  firelight." 

He  turned  to  Constance,  whose  features  had 
become  blurred  in  the  shadows.  Frank  felt  her 
tremble  and  caught  the  sound  of  a  repressed  sob. 
He  knew  the  tears  were  streaming  down  her 
cheeks,  and  his  own  eyes  were  not  dry. 

"After  that  I  saw  her  often,  and  sometimes  the 
infant,  Robin's  sister,  was  in  her  arms.  When 
the  autumn  came,  and  the  hills  were  glorified,  and 
crowned  with  snow,  she  stood  many  times  in  the 
door-yard  to  behold  their  wonder.  When  at  last 
the  leaves  fell,  and  the  trees  were  bare,  I  could 
watch  even  from  the  door  of  my  little  hut.  The 
winter  was  long — the  winter  is  always  long  up 
here — from  November  almost  till  May — but  it 
did  not  seem  long  to  me,  when  she  was  brought 
there  to  my  door,  even  though  I  might  not  speak 
to  her. 

"And  so  I  lived  my  life  with  her.  The  life  in 
that  cottage  became  my  life — day  by  day,  week 
by  week,  year  by  year — and  she  never  knew.  Af- 
ter that  first  summer  I  never  but  once  left  the 
157 


THE  LUCKY   PIECE 

mountain  top.  All  my  wants  I  supplied  here. 
There  was  much  game  of  every  sort,  and  the  fish 
near  by  were  plentiful.  I  had  a  store  of  meal  for 
the  first  winter,  and  during  the  next  summer  I 
cultivated  my  bit  of  cleared  ground,  and  produced 
my  full  need  of  grain  and  vegetables  and  condi- 
ments. One  trip  I  made  to  a  distant  village  for 
seeds,  and  from  that  day  never  left  the  mountain 
again. 

"It  was  during  the  fifth  winter,  I  think,  after  I 
came  here,  that  a  group  of  neighbors  gathered 
in  the  door-yard  of  the  cottage,  and  my  heart 
stood  still,  for  I  feared  that  she  was  dead.  The 
air  dazzled  that  day,  but  when  near  evening  I 
saw  a  woman  with  a  hand  to  each  child  re-enter 
the  little  house  I  knew  that  she  still  lived — and 
had  been  left  alone. 

"Oh,  then  my  heart  went  out  to  her !  Day  and 
night  I  battled  with  the  impulse  to  go  to  her, 
with  love  and  such  comfort  and  protection  as  I 
could  give.  Time  and  again  I  rose  and  made 
ready  for  the  journey  to  her  door.  Then,  oh, 
then  I  would  remember  that  I  had  nothing  to 
offer  her — nothing  but  my  love.  Penniless,  and 
a  dying  man,  likely  to  become  a  helpless  burden 
at  any  time,  what  could  I  bring  to  her  but 
158 


THE   HERMIT'S   STORY 

added  grief.  And  perhaps  in  her  unconscious 
heart  she  knew.  For  more  than  once  that  winter, 
when  the  trees  were  stripped  and  the  snow  was 
on  the  hills,  I  saw  her  gaze  long  and  long  to- 
ward this  mountain,  as  if  she  saw  the  speck  my 
cabin  made,  and  once  when  I  stretched  my  arms 
out  to  her  across  the  waste  of  deadly  cold,  I  saw 
a  moment  later  that  her  arms,  too,  were  out- 
stretched, as  if  somehow  she  knew  that  I  was 
there." 

A  low  moan  interrupted  the  tale.  It  was  from 
Constance. 

"Don't,  oh,  don't,"  she  sobbed.  "You  break 
my  heart !"  But  a  moment  later  she  added,  brok- 
enly, "Yes,  yes — tell  me  the  rest.  Tell  me  all. 
Oh,  she  was  so  lonely !  Why  did  you  never  go  to 
her?" 

"I  would  have  gone  then.  I  went  mad  and 
cried  out,  'My  wife !  my  wife !  I  want  my  wife !' 
And  I  would  have  rushed  down  into  the  drifts 
of  the  mountain,  but  in  that  moment  the  curse  of 
my  heritage  fell  heavily  upon  me  and  left  me 
powerless." 

The  hermit's  voice  had  risen — it  trembled  and 
died  away  with  the  final  words.  In  the  light  of 
the  fading  embers  only  his  outline  could  be  seen 
159 


THE  LUCKY   PIECE 

— wandering  into  the  dusk  and  silence.  When 
he  spoke  again  his  tone  was  low  and  even. 

"And  so  the  years  went  by.  I  saw  the  sturdy 
lad  toil  with  his  mother  for  a  while,  and  then 
alone,  and  I  knew  by  her  slow  step  that  the  world 
was  slipping  from  her  grasp.  I  did  not  see  the 
end.  I  might  have  gone,  then,  but  it  came  at  a 
time  when  the  gloom  hung  on  the  mountains  and 
I  did  not  know.  When  the  air  cleared  and  for 
days  I  saw  no  life,  I  knew  that  the  little  house 
was  empty — that  she  had  followed  him  to  rest. 
They  two,  whose  birthright  had  been  health 
and  length  of  days,  both  were  gone,  while  I, 
who  from  the  cradle  had  made  death  my  bed- 
fellow, still  lingered  and  still  linger  through  the 
years. 

"I  put  the  magic  glass  aside  after  that  for  my 
books.  Nothing  was  left  me  but  my  daily  round, 
with  them  for  company.  Yet  from  a  single  vol- 
ume I  have  .peopled  all  the  woods  about,  and  ev- 
ery corner  of  my  habitation.  Through  this  forest 
of  Arden  I  have  walked  with  Orlando,  and  with 
him  hung  madrigals  on  the  trees,  half  believing 
that  Rosalind  might  find  them.  With  Nick  the 
Weaver  on  a  moonlit  bank  I  have  waited  for 
Titania  and  Puck  and  all  that  lightsome  crew. 
160 


THE   HERMIT'S   STORY 

On  the  wild  mountain  top  I  have  met  Lear,  wan- 
dering with  only  a  fool  for  company,  and  I  have 
led  them  in  from  the  storm  and  warmed  them  at 
this  hearthstone.  In  that  recess  Romeo  has  died 
with  Juliet  in  the  Capulets'  tomb.  With  me  at 
that  table  Jack  Falstaff  and  Prince  Hal  have 
crossed  their  wit  and  played  each  the  role  of  king. 
Yonder,  beneath  the  dim  eaves,  in  the  moment 
just  before  you  came,  Macbeth  had  murdered 
Duncan,  and  I  saw  him  cravenly  vanish  at  the 
sound  of  your  fearsome  knocking. 

"But  what  should  all  this  be  to  you?  It  is 
but  my  shadow  world — the  only  world  I  had  until 
one  day,  out  of  the  mist  as  you  have  come,  so 
Robin  came  to  me — her  very  self,  it  seemed — 
from  heaven.  At  first  it  lay  in  my  heart  to  tell 
him.  But  the  fear  of  losing  him  held  me  back, 
as  I  have  said.  And  of  himself  he  told  me  as 
little.  Rarely  he  referred  to  the  past.  Only  once, 
when  I  spoke  of  kindred,  he  said  that  he  was  an 
orphan,  with  only  a  sister,  who  had  found  a  home 
with  kind  people  in  a  distant  land.  And  with  this 
I  was  content,  for  I  had  wondered  much  concern- 
ing the  little  girl." 

The  voice  died  away.  The  fire  had  become 
ashes  on  the  hearth.  The  drip  of  the  rain  had 
161 


THE  LUCKY   PIECE 

ceased — light  found  its  way  through  the  parch- 
ment-covered window.  The  storm  had  passed. 
The  hermit's  story  was  ended. 

Neither  Constance  nor  Frank  found  words, 
and  for  a  time  their  host  seemed  to  have  forgot- 
ten their  presence.  Then,  arousing,  he  said : 

"You  will  wish  to  be  going  now.  I  have  de- 
tained you  too  long  with  my  sad  tale.  But  I 
have  always  hungered  to  pour  it  into  some  human 
ear  before  I  died.  Being  young,  you  will  quick- 
ly forget  and  be  merry  again,  and  it  has  lifted  a 
heaviness  from  my  spirit.  I  think  we  shall  find 
the  sun  on  the  hills  once  more,  and  I  will  direct 
you  to  the  trail.  But  perhaps  you  will  wish  to 
pause  a  moment  to  see  something  of  my  means 
of  providing  for  life  in  this  retreat.  I  will  ask 
of  you,  as  I  did  of  Robin,  to  say  nothing  of  my 
existence  here  to  the  people  of  the  world.  Yet 
you  may  convey  to  Robin  that  you  have  been  here 
— saying  no  more  than  that.  And  you  may  say 
that  I  would  see  him  when  next  he  builds  his 
campfire  not  far  away,  for  my  heart  of  hearts 
grows  hungry  for  his  face." 

Rising,  he  led  them  to  the  adjoining  room. 

"This  was  my  first  hut,"  he  said.  "It  is  now 
my  storehouse,  where,  like  the  squirrels,  I  gather 
162 


THE   HERMIT'S   STORY 

for  the  winter.  I  hoard  my  grain  here,  and  there 
is  a  pit  below  where  I  keep  my  other  stores  from 
freezing.  There  in  the  corner  is  my  mill — the 
wooden  mortar  and  pestle  of  our  forefathers — 
and  here  you  see  I  have  provided  for  my 
water  supply  from  the  spring.  Furs  have  re- 
newed my  clothing,  and  I  have  never  wanted  for 
sustenance — chiefly  nuts,  fruits  and  vegetables. 
I  no  longer  kill  the  animals,  but  have  made  them 
my  intimate  friends.  The  mountains  have  fur- 
nished me  with  everything — companions,  shelter, 
clothing  and  food,  savors — even  salt,  for  just 
above  a  deer  lick  I  found  a  small  trickle  from 
which  I  have  evaporated  my  supply.  Year  by 
year  I  have  added  to  my  house — making  it,  as 
you  have  seen,  a  part  of  the  forest  itself — that  it 
might  be  less  discoverable ;  though  chiefly  because 
I  loved  to  build  somewhat  as  the  wild  creatures 
build,  to  know  the  intimate  companionship  of  the 
living  trees,  and  to  be  with  the  birds  and  squirrels 
as  one  of  their  household." 

They  passed  out  into  the  open  air,  and  to  a 
little  plot  of  cultivated  ground  shut  in  by  the 
thick  forest.  It  was  an  orderly  garden,  with 
well-kept  paths,  and  walks  of  old-fashioned 
posies. 

163 


THE  LUCKY   PIECE 

Bright  and  fresh  after  the  summer  rain,  it  was 
like  a  gay  jewel,  set  there  on  the  high  mountain 
side,  close  to  the  bending  sky. 

It  was  near  sunset,  and  a  chorus  of  birds  were 
shouting  in  the  tree  tops.  Coming  from  the  dim 
cabin,  with  its  faded  fire  and  its  story  of  human 
sorrow,  into  this  bright  living  place,  was  stepping 
from  enchantment  of  the  play  into  the  daylight 
of  reality.  Frank  praised  the  various  wonders  in 
a  subdued  voice,  while  Constance  found  it  diffi- 
cult to  speak  at  all.  Presently,  when  they  were 
ready  to  go,  the  hermit  brought  the  basket  and  the 
large  trout. 

"You  must  take  so  fine  a  prize  home,"  he  said. 
"I  do  not  care  for  it."  Then  he  looked  steadily  at 
Constance  and  added:  'The  likeness  to  her  I 
loved  eludes  me  by  daylight.  It  must  have  been 
a  part  of  my  shadows  and  my  dreams." 

Constance  lifted  her  eyes  tremblingly  to  the 
thin,  fine,  weatherbeaten  face  before  her.  In  spite 
of  the  ravage  of  years  and  illness  she  saw,  beneath 
it  all,  the  youth  of  long  ago,  and  she  realized  what 
he  had  suffered. 

"I  thank  you  for  what  you  have  told  us  to- 
day," she  said,  almost  inaudibly.     "It  shall 
it  is — very  sacred  to  me." 
164 


THE  HERMIT'S  STORY 

"And  to  me,"  echoed  Frank,  holding  out  his 
hand. 

He  led  them  down  the  steep  hillside  by  a  hid- 
den way  to  the  point  where  the  trail  crossed  the 
upper  brook,  just  below  the  fall. 

"I.  have  sometimes  lain  concealed  here/'  he 
said,  "and  heard  mountain  climbers  go  by.  Per- 
haps I  caught  a  glimpse  of  them.  I  suppose  it  is 
the  natural  hunger  one  has  now  and  then  for  his 
own  kind."  A  moment  later  he  had  grasped  their 
hands,  bidden  them  a  fervent  godspeed,  and  dis- 
appeared into  the  bushes.  The  sun  was  already 
dipping  behind  the  mountain  tops  and  they  did 
not  linger,  but  rapidly  and  almost  in  silence  made 
their  way  down  the  mountain. 


165 


CHAPTER   XI 

DURING  THE  ABSENCE  OF  CONSTANCE 

YET  the  adventure  on  the  mountain  was  not  with- 
out its  ill  effects.  It  happened  that  day  that  Mr. 
and  Mrs.  Deane  had  taken  one  of  their  rare  walks 
over  to  Spruce  Lodge.  They  had  arrived  early 
after  luncheon,  and  learning  that  Frank  and  Con- 
stance had  not  been  seen  there  during  the  morn- 
ing, Mrs.  Deane  had  immediately  assured  herself 
that  dire  misfortune  had  befallen  the  absent  ones. 
The  possibility  of  their  having  missed  their 
way  was  the  most  temperate  of  her  conclusions. 
She  had  visions  of  them  lying  maimed  and  dying 
at  the  foot  of  some  fearful  precipice ;  she  pictured 
them  being  assailed  by  wild  beasts ;  she  imagined 
them  tasting  of  some  strange  mushroom  and  in- 
stantly falling  dead  as  a  result.  Fortunately,  the 
guide  who  had  seen  Frank  set  out  alone  was  ab- 
sent. Had  the  good  lady  realized  that  Constance 
might  be  alone  in  a  forest  growing  dark  with  a 
coming  storm,  her  condition  might  have  become 
even  more  serious. 

166 


tTHE  ABSENCE   OF   CONSTANCE 

As  it  was,  the  storm  came  down  and  held  the 
Deanes  at  the  Lodge  for  the  afternoon,  during 
which  period  Mr.  Deane,  who  was  not  seriously 
disturbed  by  the  absence  of  the  young  people, 
endeavored  to  convince  his  wife  that  it  was  more 
than  likely  they  had  gone  directly  to  the  camp 
and  would  be  there  when  the  storm  was  over. 

The  nervous  mother  was  far  from  reassured, 
and  was  for  setting  out  immediately  through  the 
rain  to  see.  It  became  a  trying  afternoon  for  her 
comforters,  and  the  lugubrious  croaking  of  the 
small  woman  in  black  and  the  unflagging  opti- 
mism of  Miss  Carroway,  as  the  two  wandered 
from  group  to  group  throughout  the  premises, 
gave  the  episode  a  general  importance  of  which  it 
was  just  as  well  that  the  wanderers  did  not  know. 

Yet  the  storm  proved  an  obliging  one  to  Frank 
and  Constance,  for  the  sun  was  on  the  mountain 
long  before  the  rain  had  ceased  below,  and  as 
they  made  straight  for  the  Deane  camp  they  ar- 
rived almost  as  soon  as  Mrs.  Deane  herself,  who, 
bundled  in  waterproofs  and  supported  by  her  hus- 
band and  an  obliging  mountain  climber,  had  in- 
sisted on  setting  out  the  moment  the  rain  ceased. 

It  was  a  cruel  blow  not  to  find  the  missing  ones 
at  the  moment  of  arrival,  and  even  their  prompt 
167 


THE  LUCKY  PIECE 

appearance,  in  full  health  and  with  no  tale  of 
misfortune,  but  only  the  big  trout  and  a  carefully 
prepared  story  of  being  confused  in  the  fog  but 
safely  sheltered  in  the  forest,  did  not  fully  restore 
her.  She  was  really  ill  next  day,  and  carried 
Constance  off  for  a  week  to  Lake  Placid,  where 
she  could  have  medical  attention  close  at  hand 
and  keep  her  daughter  always  in  sight. 

It  began  by  being  a  lonely  week  for  Frank,  for 
he  had  been  commanded  by  Constance  not  to 
come  to  Lake  Placid,  and  to  content  himself  with 
sending  occasional  brief  letters — little  more  than 
news  bulletins,  in  fact.  Yet  presently  he  became 
less  forlorn.  He  went  about  with  a  preoccupied 
look  that  discouraged  the  attentions  of  Miss  Car- 
roway.  For  the  most  part  he  spent  his  mornings 
at  the  Lodge,  in  his  room.  Immediately  after 
luncheon  he  usually  went  for  an  extended  walk 
in  the  forest,  sometimes  bringing  up  at  the  Deane 
camp,  where  perhaps  he  dined  with  Mr.  Deane, 
a  congenial  spirit,  and  remained  for  a  game  of 
cribbage,  the  elder  man's  favorite  diversion. 
Once  Frank  set  out  to  visit  the  hermitage,  but 
thought  better  of  his  purpose,  deciding  that  Con- 
stance might  wish  to  accompany  him  there  on 
her  return.  One  afternoon  he  spent  following  a 
168 


THE  ABSENCE  OF  CONSTANCE 

trout  brook  and  returned  with  a  fine  creel  of  fish, 
though  none  so  large  as  the  monster  of  that  first 
day. 

Robin  Farnham  was  absent  almost  continuously 
during  this  period,  and  Edith  Morrison  Frank 
seldom  saw,  for  the  last  weeks  in  August  brought 
the  height  of  the  season,  and  the  girl's  duties 
were  many  and  imperative.  There  came  no  op- 
portunity for  the  talk  he  had  meant  to  have  with 
her,  and  as  she  appeared  always  pleasant  of  man- 
ner, only  a  little  thoughtful — and  this  seemed 
natural  with  her  responsibilities — he  believed 
that,  like  himself,  she  had  arrived  at  a  happier 
frame  of  mind. 

And  certainly  the  young  man  was  changed. 
There  was  a  new  light  in  his  eyes,  and  it  some- 
how spoke  a  renewed  purpose  in  his  heart.  Even 
his  step  and  carriage  were  different.  When  he 
went  swinging  through  the  forest  alone  it  was 
with  his  head  thrown  back,  and  sometimes 
with  his  arms  outspread  he  whistled  and  sang  to 
the  marvelous  greenery  above  and  about  him. 
And  he  could  sing.  Perhaps  his  was  not  a  voice 
that  would  win  fame  or  fortune  for  its  possessor, 
but  there  was  in  it  a  note  of  ecstasy  which  an- 
swered back  to  the  call  of  the  birds,  to  the  shout 
169 


THE  LUCKY   PIECE 

or  moan  of  the  wind,  to  every  note  of  the  forest 
— that  was,  in  fact,  a  tone  in  the  deep  chord  of 
nature,  a  lilt  in  the  harmony  of  the  universe. 

He  forgot  that  his  soul  had  ever  been  asleep. 
A  sort  of  child  frenzy  for  the  mountains,  such  as 
Constance  had  echoed  to  him  that  wild  day  in 
March,  grew  upon  him  and  possessed  him,  and  he 
did  not  pause  to  remember  that  it  ever  had  been 
otherwise.  When  the  storm  came  down  from 
the  peaks,  he  strode  out  into  it,  and  shouted  his 
joy  in  its  companionship,  and  raced  with  the 
wind,  and  threw  himself  face  down  in  the  wet 
leaves  to  smell  the  ground.  And  was  it  no  more 
than  the  happiness  of  a  lover  who  believes  him- 
self beloved  that  had  wrought  this  change,  or 
was  there  in  this  renewal  of  the  mad  joy  of  liv- 
ing the  reopening  and  the  flow  of  some  deep  and 
half-forgotten  spring  ? 

From  that  day  on  the  mountain  he  had  not 
been  the  same.  That  morning  with  its  new  re- 
solve; the  following  of  the  brook  which  had  led 
him  back  to  boyhood;  the  capture  of  the  great 
trout ;  the  battle  with  the  mountain  and  the  mist ; 
the  meeting  with  Constance  at  the  top;  the  her- 
mit's cabin  with  its  story  of  self-denial  and  ab- 
negation— its  life  so  close  to  the  very  heart  of 
170 


THE  ABSENCE  OF  CONSTANCE 

nature,  so  far  from  idle  pleasure  and  luxury — 
with  that  eventful  day  had  come  the  change. 

In  his  letters  to  Constance,  Frank  did  not  speak 
of  these  things.  He  wrote  of  his  walks,  it  is  true, 
and  he  told  her  of  his  day's  fishing — also  of  his 
visits  to  her  father  at  the  camp — but  of  any 
change  or  regeneration  in  himself,  any  renewal 
of  old  dreams  and  effort,  he  spoke  not  at  all.  bn£ 

The  week  lengthened  before  Constance  re- 
turned, though  it  was  clear  from  her  letters  that 
she  was  disinclined  to  linger  at  a  big  conventional 
hotel,  when  so  much  of  the  summer  was  slip- 
ping away  in  her  beloved  forest.  From  day  to 
day  they  had  expected  to  leave,  she  wrote,  but 
as  Mrs.  Deane  had  persuaded  herself  that  the 
Lake  Placid  practitioner  had  acquired  some  new 
and  subtle  understanding  of  nerve  disorders,  they 
were  loath  to  hurry.  The  young  lady  ventured 
a  suggestion  that  Mr.  Weatherby  was  taking  vast 
comfort  in  his  freedom  from  the  duties  and  re- 
sponsibilities of  accompanying  a  mushroom  en- 
thusiast in  her  daily  rambles,  especially  a  very 
exacting  young  person,  with  a  predilection  for 
trying  new  kinds  upon  him,  and  for  seeking 
strange  and  semi-mythical  specimens,  peculiar  to 
hazy  and  lofty  altitudes.  :  *>Iirt 
171 


THE  LUCKY  PIECE 

"I  am  really  afraid  I  shall  have  to  restrain 
my  enthusiasm,"  she  wrote  in  one  of  these  letters. 
"I  am  almost  certain  that  Mamma's  improve- 
ment and  desire  to  linger  here  are  largely  due  to 
her  conviction  that  so  long  as  I  am  here  you  are 
safe  from  the  baleful  Amanita,  not  to  mention 
myself.  Besides,  it  is  a  little  risky,  sometimes, 
and  one  has  to  know  a  very  great  deal  to  be  cer- 
tain. I  have  had  a  lot  of  time  to  study  the  book 
here,  and  have  attended  a  few  lectures  on  the  sub- 
ject. Among  other  things  I  have  learned  that 
certain  Amanitas  are  not  poison,  even  when  they 
have  the  cup.  One  in  particular  that  I  thought 
deadly  is  not  only  harmless,  but  a  delicacy  which 
the  Romans  called  'Caesar's  mushroom,'  and  of 
which  one  old  epicure  wrote,  'Keep  your  corn, 
O  Libya — unyoke  your  oxen,  provided  only  you 
send  us  mushrooms/  "  She  went  on  to  set  down 
the  technical  description  from  the  text-book  and 
a  simple  rule  for  distinguishing  the  varieties, 
adding,  "I  don't  suppose  you  will  gather  any  be- 
fore my  return — you  would  hardly  risk  such  a 
thing  without  my  superior  counsel — but  should 
you  do  so,  keep  the  rule  in  mind.  It  is  taken 
word  for  word  from  the  book,  so  if  anything 
happens  to  you  while  I  am  gone,  either  you  or 
172 


THE  ABSENCE  OF  CONSTANCE 

the  book  will  be  to  blame — not  I.  When  I  come 
back — if  I  ever  do — I  mean  to  try  at  least  a 
sample  of  that  epicurean  delight,  which  one  old 
authority  called  'food  of  the  gods/  provided  I 
can  find  any  of  them  growing  outside  of  that 
gruesome  'Devil's  Garden.' " 

Frank  gave  no  especial  attention  to  this  por- 
tion of  her  letter.  His  interest  in  mushrooms 
was  confined  chiefly  to  the  days  when  Constance 
could  be  there  to  expatiate  on  them  in  person. 

In  another  letter  she  referred  to  their  adven- 
ture on  the  mountain,  and  to  the  fact  that  Frank 
would  be  likely  to  see  Robin  before  her  return. 

"You  may  tell  Robin  Farnham,"  she  said, 
"about  our  visit  to  the  hermit,  and  of  the  mes- 
sage he  sent.  Robin  may  be  going  in  that  direc- 
tion very  soon,  and  find  time  to  stop  there.  Of 
course  you  will  be  careful  not  to  let  anything  slip 
about  the  tale  he  told  us.  I  am  sure  it  would 
make  no  difference,  but  I  know  you  will  agree 
with  me  that  his  wishes  should  be  sacred.  Dear 
me,  what  a  day  that  was,  and  how  I  did  love  that 
wonderful  house !  Here,  among  all  these  people, 
in  this  big  modern  hotel,  it  seems  that  it  must 
have  been  all  really  enchantment.  Perhaps  you 
and  Robin  could  make  a  trip  up  there  together. 
173 


THE  LUCKY   PIECE 

I  know,  if  there  truly  is  a  hermit,  he  will  be  glad 
to  see  you  again.  I  wonder  if  he  would  like  to  see 
me  again.  I  brought  up  all  those  sad  memories. 
Poor  old  man !  My  sympathy  for  him  is  deeper 
than  you  can  guess." 

It  happened  that  Robin  returned  to  the  Lodge 
that  same  afternoon.  A  little  later  Frank  found 
him  in  the  guide's  cabin,  and  recounted  to  him 
his  recent  adventures  with  Constance  on  the 
mountain — how  they  had  wandered  at  last  to  the 
hermitage,  adding  the  message  which  their  host 
had  sent  to  Robin  himself. 

The  guide  listened  reflectively,  as  was  his  hab- 
it. Then  he  said : 

"It  seems  curious  that  you  should  have  been 
lost  up  there,  just  as  I  was  once,  and  that  you 
should  have  drifted  to  the  same  place.  You 
took  a  little  different  path  from  mine.  I  followed 
the  chasm  to  the  end,  while  you  crossed  on  the 
two  logs  which  the  old  fellow  and  I  put  there 
afterward  to  save  me  time.  I  usually  have  to 
make  short  visits,  because  few  parties  care  to 
stay  on  Mclntyre  over  night,  and  it's  only  now 
and  then  that  I  can  get  away  at  all.  I  have  been 
thinking  about  the  old  chap  a  good  deal  lately, 
but  I'm  afraid  it  would  mean  a  special  trip  just 
174 


THE   ABSENCE   OF  CONSTANCE 

now,  and  it  would  be  hard  to  find  a  day  for 
that." 

"I  will  arrange  it,"  said  Frank.  "In  fact,  I 
have  already  done  so.  I  spoke  to  Morrison  this 
morning,  and  engaged  you  for  a  day  as  soon  as 
you  got  in.  I  want  to  make  another  trip  up  the 
mountain,  myself.  We'll  go  to-morrow  morning 
— directly  to  the  cabin — and  I'll  see  that  you  have 
plenty  of  time  for  a  good  visit.  What  I  want 
most  is  another  look  around  the  place  itself  and 
its  surroundings.  I  may  want  to  construct  a 
place  like  that  some  day — in  imagination,  at 
least." 

So  it  was  arranged  that  the  young  men  should 
visit  the  hermitage  together.  They  set  out  early 
next  morning,  following  the  Mclntyre  trail  to 
the  point  below  the  little  fall  where  the  hermit 
had  bidden  good-by  to  mankind  so  many  years 
before.  Here  they  turned  aside  and  ascended 
the  cliff  by  the  hidden  path,  presently  reaching 
the  secluded  and  isolated  spot  where  the  lonely, 
stricken  man  had  established  his  domain. 

As  they  drew  near  the  curious  dwelling,  which 
because  of  its  construction  was  scarcely  notice- 
able until  they  were  immediately  upon  it,  they 
spoke  in  lowered  voices,  and  presently  not  at  all. 
175 


THE  LUCKY   PIECE 

It  seemed  to  them,  too,  that  there  was  a  hush 
about  the  spot  which  they  had  not  noticed  else- 
where. Frank  recalled  the  chorus  of  birds  which 
had  filled  the  little  garden  with  song,  and  won- 
dered at  their  apparent  absence  now.  The  sun 
was  bright,  the  sky  above  was  glorious,  the  gay 
posies  along  the  garden  paths  were  as  brilliant  as 
before,  but  so  far  as  he  could  see  and  hear,  the 
hermit's  small  neighbors  and  companions  had 
vanished. 

"There  is  a  sort  of  Sunday  quiet  about  it," 
whispered  Frank.  "Perhaps  the  old  fellow  is  out 
for  a  ramble,  and  has  taken  his  friends  with 
him."  Then  he  added,  "I'll  wait  here  while  you 
go  in.  If  he's  there,  stay  and  have  your  talk  with 
him  while  I  wander  about  the  place  a  little. 
Later,  if  he  doesn't  mind,  I  will  come  in." 

Frank  directed  his  steps  toward  the  little  gar- 
den and  let  his  eyes  wander  up  and  down  among 
the  beds  which  the  hermit  had  planted.  It  was 
late  summer  now,  and  many  of  the  things  were 
already  ripening.  In  a  little  more  the  blacken- 
ing frost  would  come  and  the  heavy  snow  drift 
in.  What  a  strange  life  it  had  been  there,  winter 
and  summer,  with  only  nature  and  a  pageantry 
of  dreams  for  companionship.  There  must  have 
176 


THE  ABSENCE  OF   CONSTANCE 

been  days  when,  like  the  Lady  of  Shalott,  he 
had  cried  out,  "I  am  sick  of  shadows!"  and  it 
may  have  been  on  such  days  that  he  had  watched 
by  the  trail  to  hear  and  perhaps  to  see  real  men 
and  women.  And  when  the  helplessness  of  very 
old  age  should  come — what  then?  Within  his 
mind  Frank  had  a  half-formed  plan  to  persuade 
the  hermit  to  return  to  the  companionship  of 
men.  There  were  many  retreats  now  in  these 
hills — places  where  every  comfort  and  the  high- 
est medical  skill  could  be  obtained  for  patients 
such  as  he.  Frank  had  conceived  the  idea  of 
providing  for  the  hermit's  final  days  in  some  such 
home,  and  he  had  partly  confided  his  plan  to 
Robin  as  they  had  followed  the  trail  together. 
Robin,  if  anybody,  could  win  the  old  fellow  to 
the  idea. 

There  came  the  sound  of  a  step  on  the  path  be- 
hind. The  young  man,  turning,  faced  Robin. 
There  was  something  in  the  latter's  countenance 
that  caused  Frank  to  regard  him  searchingly. 

"He  is  not  there,  then?" 

"No,  he  is  not  there." 

"He  will  be  back  soon,  of  course." 

But  Robin  shook  his  head,  and  said  with  gentle 
gravity : 

177 


THE  LUCKY   PIECE 

"No,  he  will  not  be  back.  He  has  journeyed 
to  a  far  country." 

Together  they  passed  under  the  low  eaves 
and  entered  the  curious  dwelling.  Light  came 
through  the  open  door  and  the  parchment-cov- 
ered window.  In  the  high-backed  chair  before 
the  hearth  the  hermit  sat,  his  chin  dropped  for- 
ward on  his  breast.  His  years  of  exile  were 
ended.  All  the  heart-yearning  and  loneliness  had 
slipped  away.  He  had  become  one  with  the 
shadows  among  which  he  had  dwelt  so  long. 

Nor  was  there  any  other  life  in  the  room.  As 
the  birds  outside  had  vanished,  so  the  flitting 
squirrels  had  departed — who  shall  say  whither? 
Yet  the  change  had  come  but  recently — perhaps 
on  that  very  morning — for  though  the  fire  had 
dropped  to  ashes  on  the  hearth,  a  tiny  wraith  of 
smoke  still  lingered  and  drifted  waveringly  up 
the  chimney. 

The  intruders  moved  softly  about  the  room 
without  speaking.  Presently  Frank  beckoned  to 
Robin,  and  pointed  to  something  lying  on  the 
table.  It  was  a  birch-bark  envelope,  and  in  a 
dark  ink,  doubtless  made  from  some  root  or 
berry,  was  addressed  to  Robin.  The  guide 
opened  it  and,  taking  it  to  the  door,  read : 
178 


THE  ABSENCE  OF  CONSTANCE 

MY  DEAR  BOY  ROBIN: 

I  have  felt  of  late  that  my  time  is  very  near.  It  is 
likely  that  I  shall  see  you  no  more  in  this  world.  It  is 
my  desire,  therefore,  to  set  down  my  wishes  here  while 
I  yet  have  strength.  They  are  but  few,  for  a  life  like 
mine  leaves  not  many  desires  behind  it. 

It  is  my  wish  that  such  of  my  belongings  as  you  care 
to  preserve  should  be  yours.  They  are  of  little  value, 
but  perhaps  the  field  glass  and  the  books  may  in  future 
years  recall  the  story  in  which  they  have  been  a  part. 
In  a  little  chest  you  will  find  some  other  trifles — a  picture 
or  two,  some  papers  that  were  once  valuable  to  those  liv- 
ing in  the  world  of  men,  some  old  letters.  All  that  is 
there,  all  that  is  mine  and  all  the  affection  that  lingers 
in  my  heart,  are  yours.  Yet  I  must  not  forget  the  little 
girl  who  was  once  your  sister.  If  it  chance  that  you  meet 
her  again,  and  if  when  she  knows  my  story  she  will  care 
for  any  memento  of  this  lonely  life,  you  may  place  some 
trifle  in  her  hands. 

It  was  my  story  that  I  had  chiefly  meant  to  set  down 
for  you,  for  it  is  nearer  to  your  own  than  you  suppose. 
But  now,  only  a  few  days  since,  out  of  my  heart  I  gave  it 
to  those  who  were  here  and  who,  perhaps,  ere  this,  have 
given  you  my  message  to  come.  A  young  man  and  a 
woman  they  were,  and  their  happiness  together  led  me  to 
speak  of  old  days  and  of  a  happiness  that  was  mine.  The 
girl's  face  stirred  me  strangely,  and  I  spoke  to  her  fully, 
as  I  have  long  wished,  yet  feared,  to  speak  to  you.  You 
will  show  her  this  letter,  and  she  will  repeat  to  you  all  the 
tale  which  I  no  longer  have  strength  to  write.  Then  you 

179 


THE  LUCKY  PIECE 

will  understand  why  I  have  been  drawn  to  you  so  strangely; 
why  I  have  called  you  "my  dear  boy.";  why  I  would  that 
I  might  call  you  "son. " 

There  is  no  more — only,  when  you  shall  find  me  here 
asleep,  make  me  a  bed  in  the  corner  of  my  garden,  where 
the  hollyhocks  come  each  year,  and  the  squirrels  frisk 
overhead,  and  the  birds  sing.  Lay  me  not  too  deeply 
away  from  it  all,  and  cover  me  only  with  boughs  and  the 
cool,  gratifying  earth  which  shall  soothe  away  the  fever. 
And  bring  no  stone  to  mark  the  place,  but  only  breathe  a 
little  word  of  prayer  and  leave  me  in  the  comfortable  dark. 

Neither  Robin  nor  Frank  spoke  for  a  time 
after  the  reading  of  the  letter.  Then  faithfully 
and  with  a  few  words  they  carried  out  the  her- 
mit's wishes.  Tenderly  and  gently  they  bore  him 
to  the  narrow  resting-place  which  they  prepared 
for  him,  and  when  the  task  was  finished  they 
stood  above  the  spot  for  a  little  space  with  bowed 
heads.  After  this  they  returned  to  the  cabin  and 
gathered  up  such  articles  of  Robin's  inheritance 
as  they  would  be  able  to  carry  down  the  moun- 
tain— the  books  and  field  glass,  which  had  been 
so  much  to  him;  the  gun  above  the  mantel,  a 
trout  rod  and  a  package  of  articles  from  the  little 
chest  which  they  had  brought  to  the  door  and 
opened.  At  the  top  of  the  package  was  a  small, 
cheap  ferrotype  picture,  such  as  young  people  are 
180 


THE  ABSENCE  OF  CONSTANCE 

wont  to  have  made  at  the  traveling  photogra- 
pher's. It  was  of  a  sweet-faced,  merry-lipped 
girl,  and  Robin  scanned  it  long  and  thought- 
fully. 

"That  is  such  a  face  as  my  mother  had  when 
young,"  he  said  at  last.  Then  turning  to  Frank, 
"Did  he  know  my  mother?  Is  that  the  story?" 

Frank  bent  his  head  in  assent. 

"That  is  the  story,"  he  said,  "but  it  is  long. 
Besides,  it  is  his  wish,  I  am  sure,  that  another 
should  tell  it  to  you." 

He  had  taken  from  the  chest  some  folded  offi- 
cial-looking papers  as  he  spoke,  and  glanced  at 
them  now,  first  hastily,  then  with  growing  in- 
terest. They  were  a  quantity  of  registered  bonds 
— the  hermit's  fortune,  which  in  a  few  brief  days 
had  become,  as  he  said,  but  a  mockery  of  scrolled 
engraving  and  gaudy  seals.  Frank  had  only  a 
slight  knowledge  of  such  matters,  yet  he  won- 
dered if  by  any  possibility  these  old  securities  of 
a  shipwrecked  company  might  be  of  value  to- 
day. The  corporation  title,  he  thought,  had  a 
familiar  sound.  A  vague  impression  grew  upon 
him  that  this  company  had  been  one  of  the  few 
to  be  rehabilitated  with  time ;  that  in  some  meas- 
ure at  least  it  had  made  good  its  obligations. 
181 


THE  LUCKY  PIECE 

"Suppose  you  let  me  take  these,"  he  suggested 
to  Robin.  "They  may  not  be  wholly  worthless. 
At  least,  it  will  do  no  harm  to  send  them  to  my 
solicitor." 

Robin  nodded.  He  was  still  regarding  the 
little  tintype  and  the  sweet,  young  face  of  the 
mother  who  had  died  so  long  ago. 


182 


CHAPTER  XII 

CONSTANCE  RETURNS  AND  HEARS  A  STORY 

"I  ONLY  told  him,"  Frank  wrote  that  night  to 
Constance,  "that  the  hermit's  story  had  a  part  in 
his  mother's  life.  I  suppose  I  might  have  told 
him  more,  but  he  seemed  quite  willing  to  wait  and 
hear  it  from  you,  as  suggested  by  the  hermit's 
letter,  and  I  was  only  too  willing  that  he  should 
do  so.  Knowing  Robin,  as  you  have,  from  child- 
hood, and  the  sorrow  of  his  early  days  and  all, 
you  are  much  better  fitted  to  tell  the  story,  and 
you  will  tell  it  much  better  than  I.  Robin  is  to 
leave  again  to-morrow  on  a  trip  over  Marcy 
(Tahawus,  I  mean,  for  I  hate  these  modern 
names),  but  will  be  back  by  the  end  of  the  week, 
by  which  time  I  hope  you  also  will  once  more 
make  glad  these  lonesome  forest  glades.  Serious- 
ly, Conny,  I  long  for  you  much  more  than  per- 
haps you  realize  or,  I  am  sure,  would  permit  me 
to  say.  And  I  don't  mean  to  write  a  love  letter 
now.  In  the  first  place,  I  would  not  disobey 


THE  LUCKY   PIECE 

orders  to  that  degree,  and  even  if  I  did,  I  know 
that  you  would  say  that  it  was  only  because  poor 
old  Robin  Gray's  story  and  his  death,  and  all, 
and  perhaps  wandering  about  in  these  woods 
alone,  had  made  me  a  bit  sentimental.  Well,  who 
knows  just  whence  and  how  emotions  come? 
Perhaps  you  would  be  right,  but  if  I  should  tell 
you  that,  during  the  two  weeks  which  have  near- 
ly slipped  by  since  that  day  when  we  found  our 
way  through  the  mist  to  the  hermit's  cabin,  my 
whole  point  of  view  has  somehow  changed,  and 
that,  whatever  the  reasons,  I  see  with  different 
eyes — with  a  new  heart  and  with  an  uplifted  spirit 
— perhaps  I  should  be  right,  too ;  and  if  from  such 
a  consecration  my  soul  should  speak  and  say, 
'Dear,  my  heart,  I  love  you,  and  I  will  love  you  all 
my  days !'  it  may  be  that  you  would  believe  and 
understand." 

Whether  it  was  this  letter,  or  the  news  it  con- 
tained, or  whether  Mrs.  Deane's  improved  condi- 
tion warranted — from  whatever  reason,  Con- 
stance and  her  mother  two  days  later  returned  to 
the  camp  on  the  Au  Sable.  They  were  given  a 
genuine  ovation  as  they  passed  the  Lodge,  at 
which  point  Mr.  Deane  joined  them.  Frank 
found  his  heart  in  a  very  disturbing  condition  in- 
184 


CONSTANCE  RETURNS 

deed  as  he  looked  once  more  into  Miss  Deane's 
eyes  and  took  her  hand  in  welcome.  Later  in  the 
day,  he  deemed  it  necessary  to  take  a  walk  in 
the  direction  of  the  camp  to  see  if  he  could  be  of 
any  assistance  in  making  the  new  arrivals  com- 
fortable. It  was  a  matter  of  course  that  he  should 
remain  for  dinner,  and  whatever  change  may 
have  taken  place  in  him,  he  certainly  appeared  on 
this  occasion  much  like  the  old  light-hearted 
youth,  with  little  thought  beyond  the  joy  of  the 
event  and  the  jest  of  the  moment. 

But  that  night,  when  he  parted  from  Con- 
stance to  take  the  dark  trail  home,  he  did  not  find 
it  easy  to  go,  nor  yet  to  make  an  excuse  for  lin- 
gering. The  mantle  of  gayety  had  somehow 
slipped  away,  and  as  they  stood  there  in  the 
fragrance  of  the  firs,  with  the  sound  of  falling 
water  coming  through  the  trees,  the  words  he 
had  meant  to  utter  did  not  come. 

He  spoke  at  last  of  their  day  together  on  the 
mountain  and  of  their  visit  to  the  hermit's  cabin. 
To  both  of  them  it  seemed  something  of  a  very 
long  time  ago.  Then  Frank  recounted  in  detail 
all  that  had  happened  that  quiet  morning  when 
he  and  Robin  had  visited  the  place,  and  spoke  of 
the  letter  and  last  wishes  of  the  dead  man. 

185 


THE  LUCKY  PIECE 

"You  are  sure  you  do  not  mind  letting  me  tell 
Robin  the  story?"  she  said;  "alone,  I  mean?  I 
should  like  to  do  so,  and  I  think  he  would  prefer 
it." 

Frank  looked  at  her  through  the  dusk. 

"I  want  you  to  do  it  that  way,"  he  said  ear- 
nestly. "I  told  you  so  in  my  letter.  I  have  a 
feeling  that  any  third  person  would  be  an  intruder 
at  such  a  time.  It  seems  to  me  that  you  are  the 
only  one  to  tell  him." 

"Yes,"  she  agreed,  after  a  pause,  cfl  am.  I — 
knew  Robin's  mother.  I  was  a  little  girl,  but  I 
remember.  Oh,  you  will  understand  it  all,  some 
day." 

Frank  may  have  wondered  vaguely  why  she 
put  it  in  that  way,  but  he  made  no  comment.  His 
hand  found  hers  in  the  dusk,  and  he  held  it  for 
a  moment  at  parting. 

"That  is  a  dark  way  I  am  going,"  he  said,  look- 
ing down  the  trail.  "But  I  shall  not  even  remem- 
ber the  darkness,  now  that  you  are  here  again." 

Constance  laughed  softly. 

"Perhaps  it  is  my  halo  that  makes  the  differ- 
ence." 

A  moment  later  he  had  turned  to  go,   but 
paused  to  say — casually,  it  seemed : 
186 


CONSTANCE   RETURNS 

"By  the  way,  I  have  a  story  to  read  to  you — a 
manuscript.  It  was  written  by  some  one  I  know, 
who  had  a  copy  mailed  me.  It  came  this  morn- 
ing. I  am  sure  the  author,  whose  name  is  to  be 
withheld  for  the  present,  would  appreciate  your 
opinion." 

"And  my  judgment  is  to  be  final,  of  course. 
Very  well;  Minerva  holds  her  court  at  ten  to- 
morrow, at  the  top  of  yon  small  mountain,  which 
on  the  one  side  slopes  to  the  lake,  and  on  the  other 
overlooks  the  pleasant  Valley  of  Decision,  which 
borders  the  West  Branch." 

"And  do  I  meet  Minerva  on  the  mountain  top, 
or  do  I  call  for  her  at  the  usual  address — that  is 
to  say,  here?" 

"You  may  call  for  Minerva.  After  her  recent 
period  of  inactivity  she  may  need  assistance  over 
the  hard  places." 

Frank  did,  in  fact,  arrive  at  the  camp  next 
morning  almost  in  time  for  breakfast.  Perhaps 
the  habit  of  early  rising  had  grown  upon  him  of 
late.  Perhaps  he  only  wished  to  assure  himself 
that  Constance  had  really  returned.  Even  a  wish 
to  hear  her  opinion  of  the  manuscript  may  have 
exerted  a  certain  influence. 

They  set  out  presently,  followed  by  numerous 
187 


THE  LUCKY   PIECE 

injunctions  from  Mrs.  Deane  concerning  fogs 
and  trails  and  an  early  return.  Frank  had  never 
ascended  this  steep  little  mountain  back  of  the 
camp,  save  once  by  a  trail  that  started  from  near 
the  Lodge.  He  let  Constance  take  the  lead. 

It  was  a  rare  morning — one  of  the  first  Sep- 
tember days,  when  the  early  blaze  of  autumn  be- 
gins to  kindle  along  the  hills,  when  there  is  just 
a  spice  of  frost  in  the  air,  when  the  air  and  sun- 
light combine  in  a  tonic  that  lifts  the  heart,  the 
soul,  almost  the  body  itself,  from  the  material 
earth. 

"If  you  are  Minerva,  then  I  am  Mercury," 
Frank  declared  as  they  ascended  the  first  rise.  "I 
feel  that  my  feet  have  wings." 

Then  suddenly  he  paused,  for  they  had  come  to 
a  little  enclosure,  where  the  bushes  had  been  but 
recently  cleared  away.  There  was  a  gate,  and 
within  a  small  grave,  evidently  that  of  a  child; 
also  a  headstone  upon  which  was  cut  the  single 
word,  "CONSTANCE." 

Frank  started  a  little  as  he  read  the  name,  and 
regarded  it  wonderingly  without  speaking.  Then 
he  turned  to  his  companion  with  inquiry  in  his 
face. 

"That  was  the  first  little  Constance,"  she  said. 
188 


CONSTANCE  RETURNS 

"I  took  her  place  and  name.  She  always  loved 
this  spot,  so  when  she  died  they  laid  her  here. 
They  expected  to  come  back  sooner.  Her  mother 
wanted  just  the  name  on  the  stone." 

Frank  had  a  strange  feeling  as  he  regarded  the 
little  grave. 

"I  never  knew  that  you  had  lost  a  sister,"  he 
said.  "I  mean  that  your  parents  had  buried  a 
little  girl.  Of  course,  she  died  before  you  were 
born." 

"No,"  she  said,  "but  her  death  was  a  fearful 
blow.  Mamma  can  hardly  speak  of  it  even  to- 
day. She  could  never  confess  that  her  little  girl 
was  dead,  so  they  called  me  by  her  name.  I  can- 
not explain  it  all  now." 

Frank  said  musingly : 

"I  remember  your  saying  once  that  you  were 
not  even  what  you  seemed  to  be.  Is  this  what 
you  meant?" 

She  nodded. 

"Yes ;  that  is  what  I  meant." 

They  pushed  on  up  the  hill,  without  many 
words. 

The  little  enclosure  and  the  graven  stone  had 
made  them  thoughtful.  Arriving  at  the  peak 
they  found,  at  the  brow  of  a  cliff,  a  broad,  shelv- 
189 


THE  LUCKY  PIECE 

ing  stone  which  hung  out  over  a  deep,  wooded 
hollow,  where  here  and  there  the  red  and  gold 
were  beginning  to  gleam.  From  it  they  could 
look  across  toward  Algonquin,  where  they  tried 
to  locate  the  spot  of  the  hermit's  cabin,  and  down 
upon  the  lake  and  the  Lodge,  which  seemed  to 
lie  almost  at  their  feet. 

At  first  they  merely  rested  and  drank  in  the 
glory  of  the  view.  Then  at  last  Frank  drew  from 
his  pocket  a  folded  typewritten  paper. 

"If  the  court  of  Minerva  is  convened,  I  will  lay 
this  matter  before  her,"  he  said. 

It  was  not  a  story  of  startling  theme  that  he 
read  to  her — "The  Victory  of  Defeat";  it  was 
only  a  tale  of  a  man's  love,  devotion  and  sacrifice, 
but  it  was  told  so  simply,  with  so  little  attempt 
to  make  it  seem  a  story,  that  one  listening  forgot 
that  it  was  not  indeed  a  true  relation,  that  the 
people  were  not  living  and  loving  and  suffering 
toward  a  surrender  which  rose  to  triumph  with 
the  final  page.  Once  only  Constance  interrupted, 
to  say : 

"Your  friend  is  fortunate  to  have  so  good  a 
reader  to  interpret  his  story.  I  did  not  know  you 
had  that  quality  in  your  voice." 

He  did  not  reply,  and  when  he  had  finished 
190 


CONSTANCE   RETURNS 

reading  and  laid  the  manuscript  down  he  waited 
for  her  comment.    It  was  rather  unexpected. 

"You  must  be  very  fond  of  the  one  who  wrote 
that,"  she  said. 

He  looked  at  her  quickly,  hardly  sure  of  her 
meaning.  Then  he  smiled. 

"I  am.    Almost  too  much  so,  perhaps." 

"But  why?  I  think  I  could  love  the  man  who 
did  that  story." 

An  expression  half  quizzical,  half  gratified, 
flitted  across  Frank's  features. 

"And  if  it  were  written  by  a  woman  ?"  he  said. 

Constance  did  not  reply,  and  the  tender  look  in 
her  face  grew  a  little  cold.  A  tiny  bit  of  some- 
thing which  she  did  not  recognize  suddenly  ger- 
minated in  her  heart.  It  was  hardly  envy — she 
would  have  scorned  to  call  it  jealousy.  She  rose 
— rather  hastily,  it  seemed. 

"Which  perhaps  accounts  for  your  having  read 
it  so  well,"  she  said.  "I  did  not  realize,  and — I 
suppose  such  a  story  might  be  written  by  almost 
any  woman  except  myself." 

Frank  caught  up  the  manuscript  and  poised  it 
like  a  missile. 

"Another  word  and  it  goes  over  the  cliff,"  he 
threatened. 

191 


THE  LUCKY   PIECE 

She  caught  back  his  arm,  laughing  naturally 
enough. 

"It  is  ourselves  that  must  be  going  over  the 
cliff,"  she  declared.  "I  am  sure  Mamma  is 
worrying  about  us  already." 


192 


CHAPTER  XIII 

WHAT  THE  SMALL  WOMAN  IN  BLACK  SAW 

WITH  September  the  hurry  at  the  Lodge  sub- 
sided. Vacations  were  beginning  to  be  over — 
mountain  climbers  and  wood  rangers  were  re- 
turning to  office,  studio  and  classroom.  Those 
who  remained  were  chiefly  men  and  women 
bound  to  no  regular  occupations,  caring  more  for 
the  woods  when  the  crowds  of  summer  had  de- 
parted and  the  red  and  gold  of  autumn  were 
marching  down  the  mountain  side. 

It  had  been  a  busy  season  at  the  Lodge,  and 
Edith  Morrison's  face  told  the  tale.  The  con- 
stant responsibility,  and  the  effort  to  maintain  the 
standard  of  entertainment,  had  left  a  worn  look 
in  her  eyes  and  taken  the  color  from  her  cheeks. 
The  burden  had  lain  chiefly  on  her  young  shoul- 
ders. Her  father  was  invaluable  as  an  enter- 
tainer and  had  a  fund  of  information,  but  he  was 
without  practical  resources,  and  the  strain  upon 
Edith  had  told.  If  for  another  reason  a  cloud 
193 


THE  LUCKY   PIECE 

had  settled  on  her  brow  and  a  shadow  had 
gathered  in  her  heart,  she  had  uttered  no  word, 
but  had  gone  on,  day  by  day,  early  and  late,  de- 
vising means  and  supervising  methods — doing 
whatever  was  necessary  to  the  management  of  a 
big  household  through  all  those  busy  weeks. 

Little  more  than  the  others  had  she  seen  Robin 
during  those  last  August  days.  He  had  been 
absent  almost  constantly.  When  he  returned  it 
was  usually  late,  and  such  was  the  demand  upon 
this  most  popular  of  Adirondack  guides  that  in 
nearly  every  case  he  found  a  party  waiting  for 
early  departure.  If  Edith  suspected  that  there 
were  times  when  he  might  have  returned  sooner, 
when  she  believed  that  he  had  paused  at  the  camp 
on  the  west  branch  of  the  Au  Sable,  she  still 
spoke  no  word  and  made  no  definite  outward 
sign.  Whatever  she  brooded  in  her  heart  was  in 
that  secret  and  silence  which  may  have  come 
down  to  her,  with  those  black  eyes  and  that  glossy 
hair,  from  some  old  ancestor  who  silently  in  his 
wigwam  pointed  his  arrows  and  cuddled  his  re- 
sentment to  keep  it  warm.  It  had  happened  that 
during  the  days  when  Constance  had  been  absent 
with  her  mother  Robin  had  twice  returned  at  an 
earlier  hour,  and  this  could  hardly  fail  to 

194 


WHAT   THE   SMALL   WOMAN   SAW 

strengthen  any  suspicion  that  might  already  exist 
of  his  fidelity,  especially  as  the  little  woman  in 
black  had  commented  on  the  matter  in  Edith's 
presence,  as  well  as  upon  the  fact  that  immediate- 
ly after  the  return  of  the  absent  ones  he  failed  to 
reach  the  Lodge  by  daylight.  It  is  a  fact  well 
established  that  once  we  begin  to  look  for  heart- 
ache we  always  find  it — and,  as  well,  some  one 
to  aid  us  in  the  search. 

Not  that  Edith  had  made  a  confidante  of  the 
sinister-clad  little  woman.  On  the  whole,  she  dis- 
liked her  and  was  much  more  drawn  toward  the 
good-natured  but  garrulous  old  optimist,  Miss 
Carroway,  who  saw  with  clear  undistorted  vision, 
and  never  failed  to  say  a  word — a  great  many 
words,  in  fact — that  carried  comfort  because  they 
constituted  a  plea  for  the  creed  of  general  happi- 
ness and  the  scheme  of  universal  good.  Had 
Edith  sought  a  confidante  merely  for  the  sake  of 
easing  her  heart,  it  is  likely  that  it  was  to  this 
good  old  spinster  that  she  would  have  turned. 
But  a  nature  such  as  hers  does  not  confide  its 
soul-hurt  merely  for  the  sake  of  consolation.  In 
the  beginning,  when  she  had  hinted  something  of 
it  to  Robin,  he  had  laughed  her  fears  away. 
Then,  a  little  later,  she  had  spoken  to  Frank 
195 


THE  LUCKY   PIECE 

Weatherby,  for  his  sake  as  well  as  for  her  own. 
He  had  not  laughed,  but  had  listened  and  re- 
flected, for  the  time  at  least ;  and  his  manner  and 
his  manhood,  and  that  which  she  considered  a 
bond  of  sympathy  between  them,  made  him  the 
one  to  whom  she  must  turn,  now  when  the  time 
had  come  to  speak  again. 

There  came  a  day  when  Robin  did  not  go  to 
the  woods.  In  the  morning  he  had  been  about 
the  Lodge  and  the  guides'  cabin,  of  which  he  was 
now  the  sole  occupant,  greeting  Edith  in  his  old 
manner  and  suggesting  a  walk  later  in  the  day. 
But  the  girl  pleaded  a  number  of  household 
duties,  and  presently  Robin  disappeared  to  return 
no  more  until  late  in  the  afternoon.  When  he  did 
appear  he  seemed  abstracted  and  grave,  and  went 
to  the  cabin  to  prepare  for  a  trip  next  morning. 
Frank  Weatherby,  who  had  been  putting  in  most 
of  the  day  over  some  papers  in  his  room,  now 
returning  from  a  run  up  the  hillside  to  a  point 
where  he  could  watch  the  sunset,  paused  to  look 
in,  in  passing. 

"Miss  Deane  has  been  telling  me  the  hermit's 

story,"  Robin  said,  as  he  saw  who  it  was.     "It 

seems  to  me  one  of  the  saddest  stories  I  ever 

heard.    My  regret  is  that  he  did  not  tell  it  to  me 

196 


WHAT   THE   SMALL   WOMAN   SAW 

himself,  years  ago.  Poor  old  fellow!  As  if  I 
would  have  let  it  make  any  difference !" 

"But  he  could  not  be  sure,"  said  Frank.  "You 
were  all  in  the  world  to  him,  and  he  could  not 
afford  to  take  the  chance  of  losing  you." 

"And  to  think  that  all  those  years  he  lived  up 
there,  watching  our  struggle.  And  what  a  hard 
struggle  it  was !  Poor  mother — I  wish  she  might 
have  known  he  was  there!" 

Neither  spoke  for  a  time.  Then  they  reviewed 
their  visit  to  the  hermitage  together,  when  they 
had  performed  the  last  sad  offices  for  its  lonely 
occupant.  Next  morning  Robin  was  away  with 
his  party  and  Frank  wandered  over  to  the  camp, 
but  found  no  one  there  besides  the  servants. 

He  surmised  that  Constance  and  her  parents 
had  gone  to  visit  the  little  grave  on  the  hillside, 
and  followed  in  that  direction,  thinking  to  meet 
them.  He  was  nearing  the  spot  when,  at  a  turn 
in  the  path,  he  saw  them.  He  was  unobserved, 
and  he  saw  that  Constance  had  her  arms  about 
Mrs.  Deane,  who  was  weeping.  He  withdrew 
silently  and  walked  slowly  back  to  the  Lodge, 
where  he  spent  the  rest  of  the  morning  over  a 
writing  table  in  his  room,  while  on  the  veranda 
the  Circle  of  Industry — still  active,  though  much 
197 


THE  LUCKY   PIECE 

reduced  as  to  numbers — discussed  the  fact  that 
of  late  Mr.  Weatherby  was  seen  oftener  at  the 
Lodge,  while,  on  the  other  hand,  Constance  had 
scarcely  been  seen  there  since  her  return.  The 
little  woman  in  black  shook  her  head  ominously 
and  hinted  that  she  might  tell  a  good  deal  if  she 
would,  an  attitude  which  Miss  Carroway  prompt- 
ly resented,  declaring  that  she  had  thus  far  never 
known  her  to  keep  back  anything  that  was  worth 
telling. 

It  was  during  the  afternoon  that  Frank,  loiter- 
ing through  a  little  grove  of  birches  near  the  boat 
landing,  came  face  to  face  with  Edith  Morrison. 
He  saw  in  an  instant  that  she  had  something  to 
say  to  him.  She  was  as  white  as  the  birches  about 
her,  while  in  her  eyes  there  was  the  bright,  burn- 
ing look  he  had  seen  there  once  before,  now  more 
fierce  and  intensified.  She  paused  by  a  mossy- 
covered  bowlder  called  the  "stone  seat,"  and 
rested  her  hand  upon  it.  Frank  saw  that  she  was 
trembling  violently.  He  started  to  speak,  but 
she  forestalled  him. 

"I  have  something  to  tell  you,"  she  began,  with 

hurried  eagerness.     "I  spoke  of  it  once  before, 

when  I  only  suspected.     Now  I  know.     I  don't 

think  you  believed  me  then,  and  I  doubted,  some- 

198 


WHAT   THE   SMALL  WOMAN   SAW 

times,  myself.  But  I  do  not  doubt  any  longer. 
We  have  been  fools  all  along,  you  and  I.  They 
have  never  cared  for  us  since  she  came,  but  only 
for  each  other.  And  instead  of  telling  us,  as  brave 
people  would,  they  have  let  us  go  on — blinding 
us  so  they  could  blind  others,  or  perhaps  think- 
ing we  do  not  matter  enough  for  them  to  care. 
Oh,  you  are  kind  and  good,  and  willing  to  believe 
in  them,  but  they  shall  not  deceive  you  any  longer. 
I  know  the  truth,  and  I  mean  that  you  shall  know 
it,  too. 

Out  of  the  varying  emotions  with  which  the 
young  man  listened  to  the  rapid  torrent  of  words, 
there  came  the  conviction  that  without  doubt  the 
girl,  to  have  been  stirred  so  deeply,  must  have 
seen  or  heard  something  which  she  regarded  as 
definite.  He  believed  that  she  was  mistaken,  but 
it  was  necessary  that  he  should  hear  her,  in  order, 
if  possible  to  convince  her  of  her  error.  He  mo- 
tioned her  into  the  seat  formed  by  the  bowlder, 
for  she  seemed  weak  from  over-excitement. 
Leaning  against  it,  he  looked  down  into  her  dark, 
striking  face,  startled  to  see  how  worn  and  frail 
she  seemed. 

"Miss  Morrison,"  he  began  gently,  "you  are 
overwrought.  You  have  had  a  hard  summer, 
199 


THE  LUCKY   PIECE 

with  many  cares.  Perhaps  you  have  not  been 
able  to  see  quite  clearly — perhaps  things  are  not 
as  you  suppose — perhaps " 

She  interrupted  him. 

"Oh,"  she  said,  "I  do  not  suppose — I  know! 
I  have  known  all  the  time.  I  have  seen  it  in  a 
hundred  ways,  only  they  were  ways  that  one 
cannot  put  into  words.  But  now  something  has 
happened  that  anybody  can  see,  and  that  can  be 
told — something  has  been  seen  and  told !" 

She  looked  up  at  Frank — those  deep,  burning 
eyes  of  hers  full  of  indignation.  He  said : 

"Tell  me  just  what  you  mean.  What  has  hap- 
pened, and  who  has  seen  it?" 

"It  was  yesterday,  in  the  woods — the  woods 
between  here  and  the  camp  on  the  Au  Sable. 
They  were  sitting  as  we  are,  and  he  held  her 
hand,  and  she  had  been  crying.  And  when  they 
parted  he  said  to  her,  'We  must  tell  them.  You 
must  get  Mrs.  Deane's  consent.  I  am  sure  Edith 
suspects  something,  and  it  isn't  right  to  go  on  like 
this.  We  must  tell  them.'  Then — then  he  kissed 
her.  That — of  course " 

The  girl's  voice  broke  and  she  could  not 
continue.  Frank  waited  a  moment,  then  he 
said: 

200 


WHAT   THE  SMALL   WOMAN   SAW 

"And  who  witnessed  this  scene?" 

"Mrs.  Kitcher." 

"You  mean  the  little  woman  who  dresses  in 
black?" 

"Yes,  that  is  the  one." 

"And  you  would  believe  that  tale-bearing 
eavesdropper  ?" 

"I  must.    I  have  seen  so  much  myself." 

"Then,  let  me  say  this.  I  believe  that  most  of 
what  she  told  you  is  false.  She  may  have  seen 
them  together.  She  may  have  seen  him  take  her 
hand.  I  know  that  Miss  Deane  told  Robin  some- 
thing yesterday  that  related  to  his  past  life,  and 
that  it  was  a  sad  tale.  It  might  easily  bring  the 
tears,  and  she  would  give  him  her  hand  as  an  old 
friend.  There  may  have  been  something  said 
about  his  telling  you,  for  there  is  no  reason  why 
you  should  not  know  the  story.  It  is  merely  of  an 
old  man  who  is  dead,  and  who  knew  Robin's 
mother.  So  far  as  anything  further,  I  believe 
that  woman  invented  it  purely  to  make  mischief. 
One  who  will  spy  and  listen  will  do  more.  I 
would  not  believe  her  on  oath — nor  must  you, 
either." 

But  Edith  still  shook  her  head. 

"Oh,  you  don't  know !"  she  persisted.  "There 
201 


THE  LUCKY  PIECE 

has  been  much  besides.  It  is  all  a  part  of  the 
rest.  You  have  not  a  woman's  intuition,  and 
Robin  has  not  a  woman's  skill  in  deceiving. 
There  is  something — I  know  there  is  something 
— I  have  seen  it  all  along.  And,  oh,  what  should 
Robin  keep  from  me?" 

"Have  you  spoken  to  him  of  it?" 

"Once — about  the  time  you  came — he  laughed 
at  me.  I  would  hardly  mention  it  again." 

"Yet  it  seems  to  me  that  would  be  the  thing  to 
do,"  Frank  reflected  aloud.  "At  least,  you  can 
ask  him  about  the  story  told  him  by  Miss  Deane. 
You — you  may  say  I  mentioned  it." 

Edith  regarded  him  in  amaze. 

"And  you  think  I  could  do  that — that  I  could 
ask  him  of  anything  that  he  did  not  tell  me  of  his 
own  accord?  Will  you  ask  Miss  Deane  about 
that  meeting  in  the  woods  ?" 

Frank  shook  his  head. 

"I  do  not  need  to  do  so.    I  know  about  it." 

She  looked  at  him  quickly — puzzled  for  the 
moment  as  to  his  meaning — wondering  if  he,  too, 
might  be  a  part  of  a  conspiracy  against  her  hap- 
piness. Then  she  said,  comprehending: 

"No,  you  only  believe.  I  have  not  your  credu- 
lity and  faith.  I  see  things  as  they  are,  and  it  is 
202 


WHAT   THE   SMALL   WOMAN   SAW 

not  right  that  you  should  be  blinded  any  longer. 
I  had  to  tell  you." 

She  rose  with  quick  suddenness  as  if  to  go. 

"Wait,"  he  said.  "I  am  glad  you  told  me.  I 
believe  everything  is  all  right,  whatever  that 
woman  saw.  I  believe  she  saw  very  little, 
and  until  you  have  seen  and  learned  for  yourself 
you  must  believe  that,  too.  Somehow,  every- 
thing always  comes  out  right.  It  must,  you 
know,  or  the  world  is  a  failure.  And  this  will 
come  out  right.  Robin  will  tell  you  the  story 
when  he  comes  back,  and  explain  everything.  I 
am  sure  of  it.  Don't  let  it  trouble  you  for  a  single 
moment." 

He  put  out  his  hand  instinctively  and  she  took 
it.  Her  eyes  were  full  of  hot  tears.  It  came  upon 
Frank  in  that  instant  that  if  Mrs.  Kitcher  were 
watching  now  she  would  probably  see  as  much  to 
arouse  suspicion  as  she  had  seen  the  day  before, 
and  he  said  so  without  hesitation.  Edith  made  a 
futile  effort  to  reflect  his  smile. 

"Yes,"  she  agreed,  "but,  oh,  that  was  differ- 
ent! There  was  more,  and  there  has  been  so 
much — all  along." 

She  left  him  then,  followed  by  a  parting  word 
of  reassurance.  When  she  had  disappeared  he 
203 


THE  LUCKY   PIECE 

dropped  back  on  the  stone  seat  and  sat  looking 
through  the  trees  toward  the  little  boat  landing, 
revolving  in  his  mind  the  scene  just  ended.  From 
time  to  time  he  applied  unpleasant  names  to  the 
small  woman  in  black,  whose  real  name  had 
proved  to  be  Kitcher.  What,  after  all,  had  she 
really  seen  and  heard?  He  believed,  very  little. 
Certainly  not  so  much  as  she  had  told.  But  then, 
one  by  one,  certain  trifling  incidents  came  back  to 
him — a  word  here — a  look  there — the  tender 
speaking  of  a  name — even  certain  inflections  and 
scarcely  perceptible  movements  —  the  things 
which,  as  Edith  had  said,  one  cannot  put  into 
words.  Reviewing  the  matter  carefully,  he  be- 
came less  certain  in  his  faith.  Perhaps,  after  all, 
Edith  was  right — perhaps  there  was  something 
between  those  two ;  and  troubling  thoughts  took 
the  joy  out  of  the  sunlight  and  the  brightness 
from  the  dancing  waters. 

The  afternoon  was  already  far  gone,  and  dur- 
ing the  rest  of  the  day  he  sat  in  the  little  grove 
of  birches  above  the  landing,  smoking  and  re- 
volving many  matters  in  his  mind.  For  a  time 
the  unhappiness  of  Edith  Morrison  was  his  chief 
thought,  and  he  resolved  to  go  immediately  to 
Constance  and  lay  the  circumstances  fully  before 
204 


WHAT   THE   SMALL   WOMAN   SAW 

her,  that  she  might  clear  up  the  misunderstand- 
ing and  restore  general  happiness  and  good  will. 
Twice,  indeed,  he  rose  to  set  out  for  the  camp, 
but  each  time  returned  to  the  stone  seat.  What 
if  it  were  really  true  that  a  great  love  had  sprung 
up  between  Constance  and  Robin — a  love  which 
was  at  once  a  glory  and  a  tragedy — such  a  love 
as  had  brightened  and  blotted  the  pages  of  his- 
tory since  the  gods  began  their  sports  with  human- 
kind and  joined  them  in  battle  on  the  plains  of 
Troy  ?  What  if  it  were  true  after  all  ?  If  it  were 
true,  then  Constance  and  Robin  would  reveal  it 
soon  enough,  of  their  own  accord.  If  it  were  not 
true,  then  Edith  Morrison's  wild  jealousy  would 
seem  absurd  to  Constance,  and  to  Robin,  who 
would  be  obliged  to  know.  Frank  argued  that 
he  had  no  right  to  risk  for  her  such  humiliation  as 
would  result  to  one  of  her  temperament  for  hav- 
ing given  way  to  groundless  jealousy.  These 
were  the  reasons  he  gave  himself  for  not  going 
with  the  matter  to  Constance.  But  the  real  rea- 
son was  that  he  did  not  have  the  courage  to  ap- 
proach her  on  the  subject.  For  one  thing,  he 
would  not  know  how  to  begin.  For  another — 
and  this,  after  all,  comprised  everything — he  was 
afraid  it  might  be  true. 

205 


THE  LUCKY  PIECE 

So  he  lingered  there  on  the  stone  seat  while 
the  September  afternoon  faded,  the  sun  slipped 
down  the  west,  and  long,  cool  mountain  shadows 
gathered  in  the  little  grove.  If  it  were  true,  there 
was  no  use  of  further  endeavor.  It  was  for  Con- 
stance, more  than  for  any  other  soul,  living  or 
dead,  that  he  had  renewed  his  purpose  in  life, 
that  he  had  recalled  old  ambitions,  re-established 
old  effort. 

Without  Constance,  what  was  the  use?  No- 
body would  care — he  least  of  all.  If  it  were 
true,  the  few  weeks  of  real  life  that  had  passed 
since  that  day  with  her  on  the  mountain,  when 
they  had  been  lost  in  the  mist  and  found  the 
hermitage  together,  would  remain  through  the 
year  to  come  a  memory  somewhat  like  that 
which  the  hermit  had  carried  with  him  into  the 
wilderness.  Like  Robin  Gray,  he,  too,  would 
become  a  hermit,  though  in  that  greater  wilder- 
ness— the  world  of  men.  Yet  he  could  be  more 
than  Robin  Gray,  for  with  means  he  could  lend 
a  hand.  And  then  he  remembered  that  such  help 
would  not  be  needed,  and  the  thought  made  the 
picture  in  his  mind  seem  more  desolate — more 
hopeless. 

But  suddenly,  from  somewhere — out  of  the 
206 


WHAT   THE   SMALL   WOMAN   SAW 

clear  sky  of  a  sub-conscious  mind,  perhaps — a 
thought,  a  resolve,  clothed  in  words,  fell  upon 
his  lips.  "If  it  is  true,  and  if  I  can  win  her  love, 
I  will  marry  Edith  Morrison,"  he  said. 


207 


CHAPTER    XIV 

WHAT    MISS    CARROWAY   DID 

THE  Circle  of  Industry  had  been  minus  an  im- 
portant member  that  afternoon.  The  small 
woman  in  black  was  there,  and  a  reduced  con- 
tingent of  such  auxiliary  members  as  still  re- 
mained in  the  wilds,  but  the  chief  director  and 
center  of  affairs,  Miss  Carroway,  was  absent. 
She  had  set  out  immediately  after  luncheon,  and 
Mrs.  Kitcher  had  for  once  enjoyed  the  privilege 
of  sowing  discord,  shedding  gloom  and  retailing 
dark  hints,  unopposed  and  undismayed.  Her  op- 
ponent, for  the  time  at  least,  had  abandoned  the 
field. 

Miss  Carroway  had  set  out  quietly  enough,  tak- 
ing the  path  around  the  lake  that  on  the  other  side 
joined  the  trail  which  led  to  the  Deane  camp.  It 
was  a  rare  afternoon,  and  the  old  lady,  carefully 
dressed,  primly  curled,  and  with  a  bit  of  knit- 
ting in  her  hand,  sauntered  leisurely  through  the 
sunlit  woods  toward  the  West  Branch.  She  was 
a  peaceful  note  in  the  picture  as  she  passed  among 
208 


WHAT   MISS   CARROWAY   DID 

the  tall  spruces,  or  paused  for  a  moment  amid 
a  little  grove  of  maples  that  were  turning  red  and 
gold,  some  of  the  leaves  drifting  to  her  feet. 
Perhaps  she  reflected  that  for  them,  as  for  her, 
the  summer  time  was  over — that  their  day  of  use- 
fulness was  nearly  ended.  Perhaps  she  recalled 
the  days  not  long  ago  when  the  leaves  had  been 
fresh  and  fair  with  youth,  and  it  may  be  that  the 
thought  brought  back  her  own  youth,  when  she 
had  been  a  girl,  climbing  the  hills  back  of  Haver- 
ford — when  there  had  been  young  men  who  had 
thought  her  as  fresh  and  fair,  and  one  who  be- 
cause of  a  misunderstanding  had  gone  away  to 
war  without  a  good-bye,  and  had  died  at  Wilson's 
Creek  with  a  bullet  through  her  picture  on  his 
heart. 

As  she  lingered  here  and  there  in  the  light  of 
these  pleasant  places,  it  would  have  been  an  easy 
task  to  reconstruct  in  that  placid,  faded  face  the 
beauty  of  forty  years  ago,  to  see  in  her  again 
the  strong,  handsome  girl  who  had  put  aside  her 
own  heritage  of  youth  and  motherhood  to  carry 
the  burdens  of  an  invalid  sister,  to  adopt,  finally, 
as  her  own,  the  last  feeble,  motherless  infant,  to 
devote  her  years  and  strength  to  him,  to  guide 
him  step  by  step  to  a  place  of  honor  among  his 
209 


THE  LUCKY   PIECE 

fellow-men.  Seeing  her  now,  and  knowing  these 
things,  it  was  not  hard  to  accord  her  a  former 
beauty — it  was  not  difficult  even  to  declare  her 
beautiful  still — for  something  of  it  all  had  come 
back,  something  of  the  old  romance,  of  awakened 
purpose  and  the  tender  interest  of  love. 

Where  the  trail  crossed  the  Au  Sable  Falls, 
she  paused  and  surveyed  the  place  with  approval. 

"That  would  be  a  nice  place  for  a  weddin'," 
she  reflected  aloud.  "Charlie  used  to  say  a  piece 
at  school  about  'The  groves  was  God's  first  tem- 
ples,' an'  this  makes  me  think  of  it." 

Then  she  forgot  her  reflections,  for  a  little  way 
beyond  the  falls,  assorting  something  from  a 
basket,  was  the  object  of  her  visit,  Constance 
Deane.  She  had  spread  some  specimens  on  the 
grass  and  was  comparing  them  with  the  pictures 
in  the  book  beside  her.  As  Miss  Carroway  ap- 
proached, she  greeted  her  cordially. 

"Welcome  to  our  camp,"  she  said.  "I  have 
often  wondered  why  you  never  came  over  this 
way.  My  parents  will  be  so  glad  to  see  you. 
You  must  come  right  up  to  the  house  and  have 
a  cup  of  tea." 

But  Miss  Carroway  seated  herself  on  the  grass 
beside  Constance,  instead. 

2IO 


WHAT   MISS   CARROWAY   DID 

"I  came  over  to  see  you"  she  said  quietly, 
"just  you  alone.  I  had  tea  before  I  started.  I 
want  to  talk  about  one  or  two  things  a  little,  an' 
mebbe  to  give  you  some  advice." 

Constance  smiled  and  looked  down  at  the 
mushrooms  on  the  grass. 

"About  those,  you  mean,"  she  said.  "Well, 
I  suppose  I  need  it.  I  find  I  know  less  than  I 
thought  I  did  in  the  beginning." 

Miss  Carroway  shook  her  head. 

"No,"  she  admitted ;  "I've  give  up  that  ques- 
tion. I  guess  the  books  know  more  than  I  do. 
You  ain't  dead  yet,  an'  if  they  was  pizen  you 
would  'a'  been  by  this  time.  It's  somethin'  else 
I  want  to  talk  about — somethin'  that's  made  a 
good  many  people  unhappy,  includin'  me.  That 
was  a  long  time  ago,  but  I  s'pose  I  ain't  quite  got 
over  it  yet." 

A  good  deal  of  the  September  afternoon 
slipped  away  as  the  two  women  talked  there  in 
the  sunshine  by  the  Au  Sable  Falls.  When  at 
last  Miss  Carroway  rose  to  go,  Constance  rose, 
too,  and,  taking  her  hand,  kissed  the  old  lady  on 
the  cheek. 

"You  are  sweet  and  good,"  she  said,  "and  I 
wish  I  could  do  as  much  for  you  as  you  have 
211 


THE  LUCKY   PIECE 

done,  and  are  willing  to  do  for  me.  If  I  have  not 
confided  in  you,  it  is  only  because  I  cannot — to- 
day. But  I  shall  tell  you  all  that  there  is  to  tell 
as  soon — almost  as  soon — as  I  tell  any  one.  It 
may  be  to-morrow,  and  I  promise  you  that  there 
shall  be  no  unhappiness  that  I  can  help." 

"Things  never  can  be  set  straight  too  soon," 
said  the  old  lady.  "I've  had  a  long  time  to  think 
of  that." 

Miss  Deane's  eyes  grew  moist. 

"Oh,  I  thank  you  for  telling  me  your  story!" 
she  said.  "It  is  beautiful,  and  you  have  lived  a 
noble  life." 

The  shadows  had  grown  deeper  in  the  woods 
as  Miss  Carroway  followed  a  path  back  to  the 
lake,  and  so  around  to  the  Lodge.  The  sun  had 
vanished  from  the  tree  tops,  and  some  of  the 
light  and  reflex  of  youth  had  faded  from  the  old 
lady's  face. 

Perhaps  she  was  a  little  weary  with  her  walk, 
and  it  may  be  a  little  disappointed  at  what  she 
had  heard,  or  rather  what  she  had  not  heard, 
in  her  talk  with  Constance  Deane.  At  the  end 
of  the  lake  she  followed  the  path  through  the 
little  birch  grove  and  came  upon  Frank  Weath- 
erby,  where  he  mused,  on  the  stone  seat. 
212 


WHAT   MISS   CARROWAY   DID 

Miss  Carroway  paused  as  he  rose  and  'greeted 
her. 

"I  just  come  from  a  good  walk,"  she  said 
peacefully.  "I've  been  over  to  the  Deanes'  camp. 
It's  a  pretty  place." 

Frank  nodded. 

"I  suppose  you  saw  the  family,"  he  said. 

"No ;  only  Miss  Deane.  She  was  studyin'  tud- 
stools,  but  I  guess  they  wa'n't  pizen.  I  guess  she 
knows  'em." 

Frank  made  no  comment  on  this  remark,  and 
the  old  lady  looked  out  on  the  lake  a  moment  and 
added,  as  one  reflecting  aloud  on  a  matter  quite 
apart  from  the  subject  in  hand : 

"If  I  was  a  young  man  and  had  anything  on 
my  mind,  I'd  go  to  the  one  it  was  about  and  get 
it  off  as  quick  as  I  could." 

Then  she  started  on  up  the  path,  Frank  step- 
ping aside  to  let  her  pass.  As  he  did  so,  he  lifted 
his  hat  and  said : 

"I  think  that  is  good  advice,  Miss  Carroway, 
and  I  thank  you  for  it." 

But  he  dropped  back  on  the  seat  when  she  was 

gone,   and  sat  staring  out  on  the  water,   that 

caught  and  gave  back  the  colors  of  the  fading  sky. 

Certainly  it  was  good  advice,  and  he  would  act  on 

213 


THE  LUCKY   PIECE 

it — to-morrow,  perhaps — not  to-day.     Then  he 
smiled,  rather  quaintly. 

"I  wonder  who  will  be  next  on  the  scene,"  he 
thought.  "First,  the  injured  girl.  Then  the  good 
old  busybody,  whose  mission  it  is  to  help  things 
along.  It  would  seem  about  time  for  the  chief 
characters  to  appear." 

Once  the  sun  is  gone,  twilight  gathers  quickly 
in  the  hills.  The  color  blended  out  of  the  woods, 
the  mountains  around  the  lake  faded  into  walls 
of  tone,  a  tide  of  dusk  crept  out  of  the  deeper 
forest  and  enclosed  the  birches.  Only  the  highest 
mountain  peaks,  Algonquin  and  Tahawus,  caught 
the  gold  and  amethyst  of  day's  final  tokens  of 
good-bye.  Then  that  faded,  and  only  the  sky  told 
the  story  to  the  lake,  that  repeated  it  in  its  heart. 

From  among  the  shadows  on  the  farther  side  a 
boat  drifted  into  the  evening  light.  It  came  noise- 
lessly. Frank's  eye  did  not  catch  it  until  it  neared 
the  center  of  the  lake.  Then  presently  he  recog- 
nized the  silhoueted  figures,  holding  his  breath  a 
little  as  he  watched  them  to  make  sure.  Evidently 
Robin  had  returned  with  his  party  and  stopped 
by  the  Deane  camp.  Frank's  anticipation  was  to 
be  realized.  The  chief  characters  in  the  drama 
were  about  to  appear. 

214 


WHAT   MISS   CARROWAY   DID 

Propelled  by  Robin's  strong  arms,  the  Adiron- 
dack canoe  shot  quickly  to  the  little  dock.  A 
moment  later  the  guide  took  a  basket  handed  to 
him  and  assisted  his  two  passengers,  Constance 
and  Mrs.  Deane,  to  land.  As  they  stood  on  the 
dock  they  were  in  the  half  dusk,  yet  clearly  out- 
lined against  the  pale-green  water  behind.  Frank 
wondered  what  had  brought  Mrs.  Deane  to  the 
Lodge.  Probably  the  walk  and  row  through  the 
perfect  evening. 

The  little  group  was  but  a  few  yards  distant, 
but  it  never  occurred  to  Frank  that  he  could  be- 
come an  eavesdropper.  The  presence  of  Mrs. 
Deane  would  have  dispelled  any  such  idea,  even 
had  it  presented  itself.  He  watched  them  without 
curiosity,  deciding  that  when  they  passed  the 
grove  of  birches  he  would  step  out  and  greet 
them.  For  the  moment,  at  least,  most  of  his  re- 
cent doubts  were  put  aside. 

But  all  at  once  he  saw  Constance  turn  to  her 
mother  and  take  her  hands. 

"You  are  sure  you  are  willing  that  we  should 
make  it  known  to-night?"  she  said. 

And  quite  distinctly  on  that  still  air  came  the 
answer : 

"Yes,  dear.  I  have  kept  you  and  Robin  wait- 
215 


THE  LUCKY  PIECE 

ing  long  enough.  After  all,  Robin  is  more  to  you 
than  I  am,"  and  the  elder  woman  held  out  her 
hand  to  Robin  Farnham,  who,  taking  it,  drew 
closer  to  the  two. 

Then  the  girl's  arms  were  about  her  mother's 
neck,  but  a  moment  later  she  had  turned  to  Robin. 

"After  to-night  we  belong  to  each  other,"  she 
said.  "How  it  will  surprise  everybody,"  and  she 
kissed  him  fairly  on  the  lips. 

It  had  all  happened  so  quickly — so  unexpect- 
edly— they  had  been  so  near — that  Frank  could 
hardly  have  chosen  other  than  to  see  and  hear. 
He  sat  as  one  stupefied  while  they  ascended  the 
path,  passing  within  a  few  feet  of  the  stone  seat. 
He  was  overcome  by  the  suddenness  of  the  rev- 
elation, even  though  the  fact  had  been  the  possi- 
bility in  his  afternoon's  brooding.  Also,  he  was 
overwhelmed  with  shame  and  mortification  that 
he  should  have  heard  and  seen  that  which  had 
been  intended  for  no  ears  and  eyes  but  their 
own. 

How  fiercely  he  had  condemned  Mrs.  Kitcher, 
who,  it  would  seem,  had  been  truthful,  after  all, 
and  doubtless  even  less  culpable  in  her  eavesdrop- 
ping. He  told  himself  that  he  should  have  turned 
away  upon  the  first  word  spoken  by  Constance  to 
216 


WHAT   MISS   CARROWAY   DID 

her  mother.  Then  he  might  not  have  heard  and 
seen  until  the  moment  when  they  had  intended 
that  the  revelation  should  be  made.  That  was 
why  Mrs.  Deane  had  come — to  give  dignity  and 
an  official  air  to  the  news. 

He  wondered  if  he  and  Edith  were  to  be  told 
privately,  or  if  the  bans  were  to  be  announced  to 
a  gathered  company,  as  in  the  old  days  when  they 
were  published  to  church  congregations.  And 
Edith — what  would  it  mean  to  her — what  would 
she  do  ?  Oh,  there  was  something  horrible  about 
it  all — something  impossible — something  that  the 
brain  refused  to  understand.  He  did  not  see  or 
hear  the  figure  that  silently — as  silently  as  an  In- 
dian— from  the  other  end  of  the  grove  stole  up 
the  incline  toward  the  Lodge,  avoiding  the  group, 
making  its  way  to  the  rear  by  another  path.  He 
only  sat  there,  stunned  and  hopeless,  in  the  shad- 
ows. 

The  night  air  became  chill  and  he  was  growing 
numb  and  stiff  from  sitting  in  one  position.  Still 
he  did  not  move.  He  was  trying  to  think.  He 
would  not  go  to  the  Lodge.  He  would  not  be  a 
spectacle.  He  would  not  look  upon,  or  listen  to, 
their  happiness.  He  would  go  away  at  once,  to- 
night. He  would  leave  everything  behind  and, 
217 


THE  LUCKY   PIECE 

following  the  road  to  Lake  Placid,  would  catch 
an  early  train. 

Then  he  remembered  that  he  had  said  he  would 
marry  Edith  Morrison  if  he  could  win  her  love. 
But  the  idea  had  suddenly  grown  impossible. 
Edith — why,  Edith  would  be  crushed  in  the  dust 
— killed.  No,  oh,  no,  that  was  impossible — that 
could  not  happen — not  now — not  yet. 

He  recalled,  too,  what  he  had  resolved  concern- 
ing a  life  apart,  such  a  life  as  the  hermit  had  led 
among  the  hills,  and  he  thought  his  own  lot  the 
more  bitter,  for  at  least  the  hermit's  love  had  been 
returned  and  it  was  only  fate  that  had  come  be- 
tween. Yet  he  would  be  as  generous.  They 
would  not  need  his  help,  but  through  the  years  he 
would  wish  them  well — yes,  he  could  do  that — 
and  he  would  watch  from  a  distance  and  guard 
their  welfare  if  ever  time  of  need  should  come. 

Long  through  the  dark  he  sat  there,  unheeding 
the  time,  caring  nothing  that  the  sky  had  become 
no  longer  pale  but  a  deep,  dusky  blue,  while  the 
lake  carried  the  stars  in  its  bosom. 


218 


CHAPTER  XV 

EDITH   AND  FRANK 

IT  may  have  been  an  hour — perhaps  two  of  them 
— since  Robin  with  Constance  and  her  mother 
had  passed  him  on  the  way  to  the  Lodge,  when 
suddenly  Frank  heard  some  one  hurrying  down 
the  path.  It  was  the  rustle  of  skirts  that  he  heard, 
and  he  knew  that  it  was  a  woman  running.  Just 
at  the  little  grove  of  birches  she  stopped  and 
seemed  to  hesitate.  In  the  silence  of  the  place 
he  could  hear  her  breath  come  pantingly,  as  from 
one  laboring  under  heavy  excitement.  Then 
there  was  a  sort  of  sobbing  moan,  and  a  moment 
later  a  voice  that  he  scarcely  recognized  as  that 
of  Edith  Morrison,  so  full  of  wild  anguish  it 
was,  called  his  name.  He  had  already  risen,  and 
was  at  her  side  in  an  instant. 

"What  is  it?"  he  demanded;  "tell  me  every- 
thing— tell  me  quickly!" 

"Oh,"  she  wailed,  "I  knew  you  must  be  here. 
They  couldn't  find  you,  and  I  knew  why.  I  knew 
you  had  been  here,  and  had  seen  what  I  saw,  and 
219 


THE  LUCKY  PIECE 

heard  what  I  heard.  Oh,  you  must  go  to  her — 
you  must  go  at  once !" 

She  had  seized  his  arm  with  both  hands,  shak- 
ing with  a  storm  of  emotion — of  terror,  it  seemed 
— her  eyes  burning  through  the  dark. 

"When  I  saw  that,  I  went  mad,"  she  raved 
on.  "I  saw  everything  through  a  black  mist,  and 
out  of  it  the  devil  came  and  tempted  me.  He  put 
the  means  in  my  hands  to  destroy  my  enemy,  and 
I  have  done  it — oh,  I  have  done  it !  You  said  it 
was  the  Devil's  Garden,  and  it  is !  Oh,  it  is  his 
— I  know  it!  I  know  it!" 

The  girl  was  fairly  beside  herself — almost  in- 
coherent— but  there  was  enough  in  her  words 
and  fierce  excitement  to  fill  Frank  with  sudden 
apprehension. 

"What  is  it  you  have  done?"  he  demanded. 
"Tell  me  what  you  mean  by  the  devil  tempting 
you  to  destroy  your  enemy.  What  have  you 
done?" 

A  wave  of  passion,  anguish,  remorse  broke 
over  her,  and  she  clung  to  him  heavily.  She 
could  not  find  voice  at  first.  When  she  did,  it 
had  become  a  shuddering  whisper. 

"I  have  killed  her!"  she  managed  to  gasp.  "I 
have  killed  her !  I  did  it  with  the  Yellow  Danger 
220 


EDITH   AND   FRANK 

— you  remember — the  Yellow  Danger — that  day 
in  the  Devil's  Garden — that  poison  one — that 
deadly  one  with  the  cup — there  were  some  among 
those  she  brought  to-night.  She  must  have  left 
them  there  by  mistake.  I  knew  them — I  remem- 
bered that  day — and,  oh,  I  have  been  there  since. 
But  I  was  about  to  throw  them  away  when  the 
devil  came  from  his  garden  and  tempted  me.  He 
said  no  one  could  ever  suspect  or  blame  me.  I 
put  one  of  the  deadly  ones  among  those  that  went 
to  her  place  at  dinner.  When  it  was  too  late  I 
was  sorry.  I  realized,  all  at  once,  that  I  was  a 
murderer  and  must  not  live.  So  I  ran  down  here 
to  throw  myself  in  the  lake.  Then  I  remembered 
that  you  were  here,  and  that  perhaps  you  could 
do  something  to  save  her.  Oh,  she  doesn't  know ! 
She  is  happy  up  there,  but  she  is  doomed.  You 
must  help  her !  You  must !  Oh,  I  do  not  want  to 
die  a  murderer !  I  cannot  do  that — I  cannot !" 

The  girl's  raving  had  been  in  part  almost  in- 
audible, but  out  of  it  the  truth  came  clearly. 
Constance  had  brought  some  mushrooms  to  the 
Lodge,  and  these,  as  usual,  had  been  sent  in  to 
Edith  to  prepare.  Among  them  Edith  had  found 
some  which  she  recognized  as  those  declared  by 
Constance  to  be  deadly,  and  these  she  had  al- 

221 


THE  LUCKY   PIECE 

lowed  to  go  to  Constance's  plate.  Later,  stricken 
with  remorse,  she  had  rushed  out  to  destroy  her- 
self, and  was  now  as  eager  to  save  her  victim. 

All  this  rushed  through  Frank's  brain  in  an 
instant,  and  for  a  moment  he  remembered  only 
that  day  in  the  Devil's  Garden,  and  the  fact  that 
a  deadly  fungus  which  Constance  had  called  the 
Yellow  Danger  was  about  to  destroy  her  life. 
But  then,  in  a  flash,  came  back  the  letter,  written 
from  Lake  Placid,  in  which  Constance  had  con- 
fessed a  mistake,  and  referred  to  a  certain  Ama- 
nita  which  she  had  thought  poisonous  as  a  choice 
edible  mushroom,  called  by  the  ancients  "food 
of  the  gods."  He  remembered  now  that  this  was 
the  Orange  Amanita  or  "Yellow  Danger,"  and  a 
flood  of  hope  swept  over  him ;  but  he  must  be  cer- 
tain of  the  truth. 

"Miss  Morrison,"  he  said,  in  a  voice  that  was 
at  once  gentle  and  grave,  "this  is  a  bitter  time 
for  us  all.  But  you  must  be  calm,  and  show  me, 
if  you  can,  one  of  those  yellow  mushrooms  you 
did  not  use.  I  have  reason  to  hope  that  they  are 
not  the  deadly  ones  after  all.  But  take  me  where 
I  can  see  them,  at  once." 

His  words  and  tone  seemed  to  give  the  girl 
new  strength  and  courage. 

222 


EDITH  AND  FRANK 

"Oh,  don't  tell  me  that  unless  it  is  true!"  she 
pleaded.  "Don't  tell  me  that  just  to  get  me  to 
go  back  to  the  Lodge!  Oh,  I  will  do  anything 
to  save  her !  Come — yes — come,  and  I  will  show 
them  to  you !" 

She  started  hurriedly  in  the  direction  of  the 
Lodge,  Frank  keeping  by  her  side.  As  they 
neared  the  lights  she  seized  his  arm  and  detained 
him  an  instant. 

"You  will  not  let  her  die  ?"  She  trembled,  her 
fear  returning.  "She  is  so  young  and  beautiful 
— you  will  not  let  her  die  ?  I  will  give  up  Robin, 
but  she  must  not  die." 

He  spoke  to  her  reassuringly,  and  they  pushed 
on,  making  a  wide  detour  which  brought  them  to 
the  rear  of  the  Lodge.  Through  the  window 
they  saw  the  servants  still  passing  to  and  fro  into 
the  dining-room  serving  a  few  belated  guests. 
From  it  a  square  of  light  penetrated  the  woods 
behind,  and  on  the  edge  of  this  they  paused — 
the  girl's  eyes  eagerly  scanning  the  ground. 

"I  hid  them  here,"  she  said.  "I  did  not  put 
them  in  the  waste,  for  fear  some  one  would  see 
them." 

Presently  she  knelt  and  brushed  aside  the 
leaves.  Something  like  gold  gleamed  before  her 
223 


THE  LUCKY   PIECE 

and  she  seized  upon  it.    A  moment  later  she  had 
uncovered  another  similar  object. 

"There,"  she  said  chokingly;  "there  they  are! 
Tell  me — tell  me  quick!  Are  they  the  deadly 
ones  ?" 

He  gave  them  a  quick  glance  in  the  light,  then 
he  said : 

"I  think  not,  but  I  cannot  be  sure  here.  Come 
with  me  to  the  guide's  cabin.  It  was  dark  as  we 
came  up,  but  it  was  open.  I  will  strike  a  light." 

They  hurried  across  to  the  little  detached  cabin 
and  pushed  in.  Frank  struck  a  match  and  lit  a 
kerosene  bracket  lamp.  Then  he  laid  the  two 
yellow  mushrooms  on  the  table  beneath  it,  and 
from  an  inner  pocket  drew  a  small  and  rather 
mussed  letter  and  opened  it — his  companion 
watching  every  movement  with  burning  eager 
eyes. 

"This  is  a  letter  from  Miss  Deane,"  he  said, 
"written  me  from  Lake  Placid.  In  it  she  says 
that  she  made  a  mistake  about  the  Orange  Ama- 
nita  that  she  called  the  Yellow  Danger.  These 
are  her  words — a  rule  taken  from  the  book : 

"  'If  the  cup  of  the  Yellow  Amanita  is  present, 
the  plant  is  harmless.  If  the  cup  is  absent,  it  is 
poisonous.' " 

224 


EDITH   AND  FRANK 

He  bent  forward  and  looked  closely  at  the 
specimens  before  him. 

"That  is  surely  the  cup,"  he  said.  "She  gath- 
ered these  and  put  them  among  the  others  by  in- 
tention, knowing  them  to  be  harmless.  She  is 
safe,  and  you  have  committed  no  crime." 

His  last  words  fell  on  insensate  ears.  Edith 
drew  a  quick  breath  that  was  half  a  cry,  and  an 
instant  later  Frank  saw  that  she  was  reeling.  He 
caught  her  and  half  lifted  her  to  a  bench  by  the 
door,  where  she  lay  insensible.  An  approaching 
step  caught  Frank's  ear  and,  as  he  stepped  to  the 
door,  Robin  Farnham,  who  had  seen  the  light 
in  the  cabin,  was  at  the  entrance.  A  startled  look 
came  into  his  eyes  as  he  saw  Edith's  white  face, 
but  Frank  said  quietly : 

"Miss  Morrison  has  had  a  severe  shock — a 
fright.  She  has  fainted,  but  I  think  there  is  no 
danger.  I  will  remain  while  you  bring  a  cup  of 
water." 

There  was  a  well  at  the  end  of  the  Lodge,  and 
Robin  returned  almost  immediately  with  a  filled 
cup. 

Already  Edith  showed  signs  of  returning  con- 
sciousness, and  Frank  left  the  two,  taking  his 
way  to  the  veranda,  where  he  heard  the  voices 
225 


THE  LUCKY   PIECE 

of  Constance  and  her  mother,  mingled  with  that 
of  Miss  Carroway.  He  ascended  the  steps  with 
a  resolute  tread  and  went  directly  to  Constance, 
who  came  forward  to  meet  him. 

"And  where  did  you  come  from?"  she  de- 
manded gayly.  "We  looked  for  you  all  about. 
Mamma  and  I  came  over  on  purpose  to  dine  with 
you,  and  I  brought  a  very  especial  dish,  which  I 
had  all  to  myself.  Still,  we  did  miss  you,  and 
Miss  Carroway  has  been  urging  us  to  send  out 
a  searching  party." 

Frank  shook  hands  with  Mrs.  Deane  and  Miss 
Carroway,  apologizing  for  his  absence  and  late- 
ness. Then  he  turned  to  Constance,  and  together 
they  passed  down  to  the  further  end  of  the  long 
veranda.  Neither  spoke  until  they  were  out  of 
earshot  of  the  others.  Then  the  girl  laid  her 
hand  gently  on  her  companion's  arm. 

"I  have  something  to  tell  you,"  she  began.  "I 
came  over  on  purpose — something  I  have  been 
wanting  to  say  a  long  time,  only " 

He  interrupted  her. 

"I  know,"  he  said;  "I  can  guess  what  it  is. 

That  was  why  I  did  not  come  sooner.     I  came 

now  because  I  have  something  to  say  to  you. 

I  did  not  intend  to  come  at  all,  but  then  some- 

226 


EDITH  AND  FRANK 

thing  happened  and — I  have  changed  my  mind. 
I  will  only  keep  you  a  moment." 

His  voice  was  not  quite  steady,  but  grave  and 
determined,  with  a  tone  in  it  which  the  girl  did 
not  recognize.  Her  hand  slipped  from  his  arm. 

"Tell  me  first,"  he  went  on,  "if  you  are  quite 
sure  that  the  mushrooms  you  brought  for  dinner 
— all  of  them — the  yellow  ones — are  entirely 
harmless." 

Certainly  this  was  an  unexpected  question. 
Something  in  the  solemn  manner  and  sudden- 
ness of  it  may  have  seemed  farcical.  For  an  in- 
stant she  perhaps  thought  him  jesting,  for  there 
was  a  note  of  laughter  in  her  voice  as  she  replied : 

"Oh,  yes ;  quite  certain.  Those  are  the  Caesar 
mushrooms — food  of  the  gods — I  brought  them 
especially  for  you.  But  how  did  you  know  of 
them?" 

He  did  not  respond  to  this  question,  nor  to  her 
light  tone. 

"Miss  Deane,"  he  went  on,  "I  know  perfectly 
well  what  you  came  here  to  say.  I  happened  to 
be  in  the  little  grove  of  birches  to-night  when 
you  landed  with  your  mother  and  Robin  Farn- 
ham,  and  I  saw  and  heard  what  took  place  on  the 
dock,  almost  before  I  realized  that  I  was  eaves- 
227 


THE  LUCKY   PIECE 

dropping.  Unfortunately,  though  I  did  not 
know  it  then,  another  saw  and  heard,  as  well, 
and  the  shock  of  it  was  such  that  it  not  only 
crushed  her  spirit  but  upset  her  moral  balance 
for  the  time.  You  will  know,  of  course,  that  I 
refer  to  Edith  Morrison.  She  had  to  know,  and 
perhaps  no  one  is  to  blame  for  her  suffering — 
and  mine ;  only  it  seems  unfortunate  that  the  rev- 
elation should  have  come  just  as  it  did  rather 
than  in  the  gentler  way  which  you  perhaps  had 
planned." 

He  paused  a  moment  to  collect  words  for  what 
he  had  to  say  next.  Constance  was  looking  di- 
rectly at  him,  though  her  expression  was  lost 
in  the  dusk.  Her  voice,  however,  was  full  of 
anxiety. 

"There  is  a  mistake,"  she  began  eagerly.  "Oh, 
I  will  explain,  but  not  now.  Where  is  Edith? 
Tell  me  first  what  has  happened  to  Edith." 

"I  will  do  that,  presently.  She  is  quite  safe. 
The  man  she  was  to  marry  is  with  her.  But  first 
I  have  something  to  say — something  that  I 
wish  to  tell  you  before — before  I  go.  I  want 
to  say  to  you  in  all  honesty  that  I  consider  Robin 
Farnham  a  fine,  manly  fellow — more  worthy  of 
you  than  I — and  that  I  honor  you  in  your  choice, 
228 


EDITH   AND   FRANK 

regretting  only  that  it  must  bring  sorrow  to  other 
hearts.  I  want  to  confess  to  you  that  never  until 
after  that  day  upon  the  mountain  did  I  realize 
the  fullness  of  my  love  for  you — that  it  was  all  in 
my  life  that  was  worth  preserving — that  it  spoke 
to  the  best  there  was  in  me.  I  want  you  to  know 
that  it  stirred  old  ambitions  and  restored  old 
dreams,  and  that  I  awoke  to  renewed  effort  and 
to  the  hope  of  achievement  only  because  of  you 
and  of  your  approval.  The  story  I  read  to  you 
that  day  on  the  mountain  was  my  story.  I  wrote 
it  those  days  while  you  were  away.  It  was  the 
beginning  of  a  work  I  hoped  to  make  worth 
while.  I  believed  that  you  cared,  and  that  with 
worthy  effort  I  could  win  you  for  my  own.  I 
had  Robin  Gray's  character  in  mind  for  my 
hero,  not  dreaming  that  I  should  be  called  upon 
to  make  a  sacrifice  on  my  own  account,  but  now 
that  the  time  is  here  I  want  you  to  know  that  I 
shall  try  not  to  make  it  grudgingly  or  cravenly, 
but  as  manfully  as  I  can.  I  want  to  tell  you  from 
my  heart  and  upon  my  honor  that  I  wish  you  well 
— that  if  ever  the  day  comes  when  I  can  be  of 
service  to  you  or  to  him,  I  will  do  whatever 
lies  in  my  power  and  strength.  It  is  not  likely 
such  a  time  will  ever  come,  for  in  the  matter  of 
229 


THE  LUCKY   PIECE 

means  you  will  have  ample  and  he  will  have 
enough.  Those  bonds  which  poor  old  Robin 
Gray  believed  worthless  all  these  years  have  been 
restored  to  their  full  value,  and  more;  and,  even 
if  this  were  not  true,  Robin  Farnham  would  make 
his  way  and  command  the  recognition  and  the 
rewards  of  the  world.  What  will  become  of  my 
ambition  I  do  not  know.  It  awoke  too  late  to 
mean  anything  to  you,  and  the  world  does  not 
need  my  effort.  As  a  boy,  I  thought  it  did,  and 
that  my  chances  were  all  bright  ahead.  But  once, 
a  long  time  ago,  in  these  same  hills,  I  gave  my 
lucky  piece  to  a  little  mountain  girl,  and  perhaps 
I  gave  away  my  opportunities  with  it,  and  my 
better  strength.  Now,  there  is  no  more  to  say 
except  God  bless  you  and  love  you,  as  I  always 
will." 

And  a  moment  later  he  added : 

"I  left  Miss  Morrison  with  Robin  Farnham  in 
the  guide's  cabin.  If  she  is  not  there  you  will 
probably  find  her  in  her  room.  Be  as  kind  to 
her  as  you  can.  She  needs  everything." 

He  held  out  his  hand  then,  as  if  to  leave  her. 
But  she  took  it  and  held  it  fast.  He  felt  that  hers 
trembled. 

"You  are  brave  and  true,"  she  said,  "and  you 
230 


EDITH  AND  FRANK 

cannot  go  like  this.  You  will  not  leave  the  Lodge 
without  seeing  me  again.  Promise  me  you  will 
not.  I  have  something  to  say  to  you — something 
it  is  necessary  you  should  know.  It  is  quite  a 
long  story  and  will  take  time.  I  cannot  tell  it 
now.  Promise  me  that  you  will  walk  once  more 
with  me  to-morrow  morning.  I  will  go  now  to 
Edith ;  but  promise  me  what  I  ask.  You  must." 

"It  is  not  fair,"  he  said  slowly,  "  but  I  promise 
you." 

"You  need  not  come  for  me,"  she  said.  "Our 
walk  will  be  in  the  other  direction.  I  will  meet 
you  here  quite  early." 

He  left  her  at  the  entrance  of  the  wide  hall 
and,  ascending  to  his  room,  began  to  put  his  traps 
together  in  readiness  for  departure  by  stage  next 
day. 

Constance  descended  the  veranda  steps  and 
crossed  over  to  the  guides'  cabin,  where  a  light 
still  shone.  As  she  approached  the  open  door 
she  saw  Edith  and  Robin  sitting  on  the  bench, 
talking  earnestly.  Edith  had  been  crying,  but  ap- 
peared now  in  a  calmer  frame  of  mind.  Robin 
held  both  her  hands  in  his,  and  she  made  no  ap- 
parent attempt  to  withdraw  them.  Then  came 
the  sound  of  footsteps  and  Constance  stood  in  the 
231 


THE  LUCKY  PIECE 

doorway.  For  a  moment  Edith  was  startled. 
Then,  seeing  who  it  was,  she  sprang  up  and  ran 
forward  with  extended  arms. 

"Forgive  me!     Oh,  forgive  me!"  she  cried; 
"I  did  not  know !    I  did  not  know !" 


232 


CHAPTER   XVI 

THE      LUCKY      PIECE 

TRUE  to  her  promise,  Constance  was  at  the 
Lodge  early  next  morning.  Frank,  a  trifle  pale 
and  solemn,  waited  on  the  veranda  steps.  Yet 
he  greeted  her  cheerfully  enough,  for  the  Circle 
of  Industry,  daily  dwindling  in  numbers  but  still 
a  quorum,  was  already  in  session,  and  Miss  Car- 
roway  and  the  little  woman  in  black  had  sharp 
eyes  and  ears.  Constance  went  over  to  speak  to 
this  group.  With  Miss  Carroway  she  shook 
hands. 

Frank  lingered  by  the  steps,  waiting  for  her, 
but  instead  of  returning  she  disappeared  into  the 
Lodge  and  was  gone  several  minutes. 

"I  wanted  to  see  Miss  Morrison,"  she  ex- 
claimed, in  a  voice  loud  enough  for  all  to  hear. 
"She  did  not  seem  very  well  last  night.  I  find 
she  is  much  better  this  morning." 

Frank  did  not  make  any  reply,  or  look  at  her. 
He  could  not  at  all  comprehend.  They  set  out  in 
233 


THE  LUCKY   PIECE 

the  old  way,  only  they  did  not  carry  the  basket 
and  book  of  former  days,  nor  did  the  group  on 
the  veranda  call  after  them  with  warning  and 
advice.  But  Miss  Carroway  looked  over  to  the 
little  woman  in  black  with  a  smile  of  triumph. 
And  Mrs.  Kitcher  grimly  returned  the  look  with 
another  which  may  have  meant  "wait  and  see." 

A  wonderful  September  morning  had  followed 
the  perfect  September  night.  There  was  a  smack 
of  frost  in  the  air,  but  now,  with  the  flooding 
sunlight,  the  glow  of  early  autumn  and  the  odors 
of  dying  summer  time,  the  world  seemed  filled 
with  anodyne  and  glory.  Frank  and  Constance 
followed  the  road  a  little  way  and  then,  just  be- 
yond the  turn,  the  girl  led  off  into  a  narrow  wood 
trail  to  the  right — the  same  they  had  followed 
that  day  when  they  had  visited  the  Devil's  Gar- 
den. 

She  did  not  pause  for  that  now.  She  pushed 
ahead  as  one  who  knew  her  ground  from  old  ac- 
quaintance, with  that  rapid  swinging  walk  of 
hers  which  seemed  always  to  make  her  a  part  of 
these  mountains,  and  their  uncertain  barricaded 
trails.  Frank  followed  behind,  rarely  speaking 
save  to  comment  upon  some  unusual  appearance 
in  nature — wondering  at  her  purpose  in  it  all, 
234 


THE  LUCKY  PIECE 

realizing  that  they  had  never  continued  so  far  in 
this  direction  before. 

They  had  gone  something  less  than  a  mile, 
perhaps,  when  they  heard  the  sound  of  tumbling 
water,  and  a  few  moments  later  were  upon  the 
banks  of  a  broad  stream  that  rushed  and  foamed 
between  the  bowlders.  Frank  said,  quietly : 

"This  is  like  the  stream  where  I  caught  the  big 
trout — you  remember?" 

"It  is  the  same,"  she  said,  "only  that  was  much 
farther  up.  Come,  we  will  cross." 

He  put  out  his  hand  as  if  to  assist  her.  She 
did  not  take  it,  but  stepped  lightly  to  a  large 
stone,  then  to  another  and  another — springing 
a  little  to  one  side  here,  just  touching  a  bowlder 
all  but  covered  with  water  there,  and  so  on,  al- 
most more  rapidly  than  Frank  could  follow — as 
one  who  knew  every  footing  of  that  uncertain 
causeway.  They  were  on  the  other  side  pres- 
ently, and  took  up  the  trail  there. 

"I  did  not  know  you  were  so  handy  crossing 
streams,"  said  Frank.  "I  never  saw  you  do  it 
before." 

"But  that  was  not  hard.  I  have  crossed  many 
worse  ones.  Perhaps  I  was  lighter  of  foot  then." 

They  now  passed  through  another  stretch  of 
235 


THE  LUCKY   PIECE 

timber,  Constance  still  leading  the  way.  The 
trail  was  scarcely  discernible  here  and  there,  as 
one  not  often  used,  but  she  did  not  pause.  They 
had  gone  nearly  a  mile  farther  when  a  break  of 
light  appeared  ahead,  and  presently  they  came  to 
a  stone  wall  and  a  traveled  road.  Constance  did 
not  scale  the  wall,  but  seated  herself  on  it  as  if  to 
rest.  A  few  feet  away  Frank  leaned  against  the 
barrier,  looking  at  the  road  and  then  at  his  com- 
panion, curious  but  silent.  Presently  Constance 
said: 

"You  are  wondering  what  I  have  to  tell  you, 
and  why  I  have  brought  you  all  this  way  to  tell 
it.  Also,  how  I  could  follow  the  trail  so  easily — 
aren't  you?"  and  she  smiled  up  at  him  in  the  old 
way. 

"Yes,"  admitted  Frank ;  "though  as  for  the 
trail,  I  suppose  you  must  have  been  over  it  be- 
fore— some  of  those  times  before  I  came." 

She  nodded. 

"That  is  true.  You  were  not  here  when  I 
traveled  this  trail  before.  It  was  Robin  who 
came  with  me  the  last  time.  But  that  was  long 
ago — almost  ten  years." 

"You  have  a  good  memory." 

"Yes,  very  good — better  than  yours.  That  is 
236 


THE  LUCKY  PIECE 

why  I  brought  you  here  to-day — to  refresh  your 
memory." 

There  was  something  of  the  old  banter  in  her 
voice,  and  something  in  her  expression,  in- 
scrutable though  it  was,  that  for  some  reason 
set  his  heart  to  beating.  He  wondered  if  she 
could  be  playing  with  him.  He  could  not  under- 
stand, and  said  as  much. 

"You  brought  me  here  to  tell  me  a  story,"  he 
concluded.  "Isn't  that  what  you  said?  I  shall 
miss  the  Lake  Placid  hack  if  we  do  not  start  back 
presently." 

Again  that  inscrutable,  disturbing  look. 

"Is  it  so  necessary  that  you  should  start  to- 
day?" she  asked.  "Mr.  Meelie,  I  am  sure,  will 
appreciate  your  company  just  as  much  another 
time.  And  to-day  is  ours." 

That  look — it  kept  him  from  saying  something 
bitter  then. 

"The  story — you  are  forgetting  it,"  he  said, 
quietly. 

"No,  I  am  not  forgetting."  The  banter  had 
all  gone  out  of  her  voice,  and  it  had  become 
gentle — almost  tender.  A  soft,  far-away  look 
had  come  into  her  eyes.  "I  am  only  trying  to 
think  how  to  tell  it — how  to  begin.  I  thought 
237 


THE  LUCKY   PIECE 

perhaps  you  might  help  me — only  you  don't — 
your  memory  is  so  poor." 

He  had  no  idea  of  her  meaning  now,  and  ven- 
tured no  comment. 

"You  do  not  help  me,"  she  went  on.  "I  must 
tell  my  little  story  alone.  After  all,  it  is  only  a 
sequel — do  you  care  for  sequels?" 

There  was  something  in  her  face  just  then 
that,  had  it  not  been  for  all  that  had  come  be- 
tween them,  might  have  made  him  take  her  in 
his  arms. 

"I — I  care  for  what  you  are  about  to  tell,"  he 
said. 

She  regarded  him  intently,  and  a  great  soft- 
ness came  into  her  eyes. 

"It  is  the  sequel  of  a  story  we  heard  together," 
she  began,  "that  day  on  Mclntyre,  in  the  hermit's 
cabin.  You  remember  that  he  spoke  of  the  other 
child — a  little  girl — hers.  This  is  the  story  of 
that  little  girl.  You  have  heard  something  of  her 
already — how  the  brother  toiled  for  her  and  his 
mother — how  she  did  not  fully  understand  the 
bitterness  of  it  all.  Yet  she  tried  to  help — a  little. 
She  thought  of  many  things.  She  had  dreams 
that  grew  out  of  the  fairy  book  her  mother  used 
to  read  to  her,  and  she  looked  for  Aladdin  caves 
238 


THE  LUCKY   PIECE 

among  the  hills,  and  sometimes  fancied  herself 
borne  away  by  the  wind  and  the  sea  to  some  far 
Eastern  land  where  the  people  would  lay  their 
treasures  at  her  feet.  But  more  than  all  she 
waited  for  the  wonderful  fairy  prince  who  would 
one  day  come  to  her  with  some  magic  talisman 
-of  fortune  which  would  make  them  all  rich,  and 
happy  ever  after. 

"Yet,  while  she  dreamed,  she  really  tried  to 
help  in  other  ways — little  ways  of  her  own — and 
in  the  summer  she  picked  berries  and,  standing 
where  the  stage  went  by,  she  held  them  out  to 
the  tourists  who,  when  the  stage  halted,  some- 
times bought  them  for  a  few  pennies.  Oh,  she 
was  so  glad  when  they  bought  them — the  pennies 
were  so  precious — though  it  meant  even  more  to 
her  to  be  able  to  look  for  a  moment  into  the  faces 
of  those  strangers  from  another  world,  and  to 
hear  the  very  words  that  were  spoken  somewhere 
beyond  the  hills." 

She  paused,  and  Frank,  who  had  leaned  a  bit 
nearer,  started  to  speak,  but  she  held  up  her  hand 
for  silence. 

"One  day,  when  the  summer  was  over  and  all 
the  people  were  going  home — when  she  had 
gathered  her  last  few  berries,  for  the  bushes  were 
239 


THE  LUCKY   PIECE 

nearly  bare — she  stood  at  her  place  on  the  stone 
in  front  of  the  little  house  at  the  top  of  the  hill, 
waiting  for  the  stage.  But  when  it  came,  the 
people  only  looked  at  her,  for  the  horses  did  not 
stop,  but  galloped  past  to  the  bottom  of  the 
hill,  while  she  stood  looking  after  them,  holding 
that  last  saucer  of  berries,  which  nobody  would 
buy. 

"But  at  the  foot  of  the  hill  the  stage  did  stop, 
and  a  boy,  oh,  such  a  handsome  boy  and  so  finely 
dressed,  leaped  out  and  ran  back  all  the  way  up 
the  hill  to  her,  and  stood  before  her  just  like  the 
prince  in  the  fairy  tales  she  had  read,  and  told 
her  he  had  come  to  buy  her  berries.  And  then, 
just  like  the  prince,  he  had  only  an  enchanted 
coin — a  talisman — his  lucky  piece.  And  this  he 
gave  to  her,  and  he  made  her  take  it.  He  took  her 
hand  and  shut  it  on  the  coin,  promising  he  would 
come  for  it  again  some  day,  when  he  would  give 
her  for  it  anything  she  might  wish,  asking  only 
that  she  keep  it  safe.  And  then,  like  the  prince, 
he  was  gone,  leaving  her  there  with  the  enchant- 
ed coin.  Oh,  she  hardly  dared  to  look,  for  fear 
it  might  not  be  there  after  all.  But  when  she 
opened  her  hand  at  last  and  saw  that  it  had  not 
vanished,  then  she  was  sure  that  all  the  tales 
240 


THE  LUCKY   PIECE 

were  true,  for  her  fairy  prince  had  come  to  her 
at  last." 

Again  Frank  leaned  forward  to  speak,  a  new 
light  shining  in  his  face,  and  again  she  raised  her 
hand  to  restrain  him. 

"You  would  not  help  me,"  she  said,  "your 
memory  was  so  poor.  Now,  you  must  let  me  tell 
the  story. 

"The  child  took  the  wonderful  coin  to  her 
mother.  I  think  she  was  very  much  excited,  for 
she  wept  and  sobbed  over  the  lucky  talisman  that 
was  to  bring  fortune  for  them  all.  And  I  know 
that  her  mother,  pale,  and  in  want,  and  ill,  kissed 
her  and  smiled,  and  said  that  now  the  good  days 
must  surely  come. 

"They  did  not  come  that  winter — a  wild  win- 
ter of  fierce  cold  and  terrible  storms.  When  it 
was  over  and  the  hills  were  green  with  summer, 
the  tired  mother  went  to  sleep  one  day,  and  so 
found  her  good  fortune  in  peace  and  rest. 

"But  for  the  little  girl  there  came  a  fortune 
not  unlike  her  dreams.  That  year  a  rich  man 
and  woman  had  built  a  camp  in  the  hills.  There 
was  no  Lodge,  then;  everything  was  wild,  and 
supplies  hard  to  get.  The  child's  brother  sold 
vegetables  to  the  camp,  sometimes  letting  his 
241 


THE  LUCKY   PIECE 

little  sister  go  with  him.  And  because  she  was 
of  the  same  age  as  a  little  girl  of  the  wealthy 
people,  now  and  then  they  asked  her  to  spend  the 
day,  playing,  and  her  brother  used  to  come  all 
the  way  for  her  again  at  night.  There  was  one 
spot  on  the  hillside  where  they  used  to  play — an 
open,  sunny  place  that  they  loved  best  of  all — 
and  this  they  named  their  Garden  of  Delight; 
and  it  was  truly  that  to  the  little  girl  of  the  hills 
who  had  never  had  such  companionship  before. 
"But  then  came  a  day  when  a  black  shadow 
lay  on  the  Garden  of  Delight,  for  the  little  city 
child  suddenly  fell  ill  and  died.  Oh,  that  was  a 
terrible  time.  Her  mother  nearly  lost  her  mind, 
and  was  never  quite  the  same  again.  She  would 
not  confess  that  her  child  was  dead,  and  she  was 
too  ill  to  be  taken  home  to  the  city,  so  a  little 
grave  was  made  on  the  hillside  where  the  chil- 
dren had  played  together,  and  by  and  by  the  fee- 
ble woman  crept  there  to  sit  in  the  sun,  and  had 
the  other  little  girl  brought  there  to  play,  as  if 
both  were  still  living.  It  was  just  then  that  the 
mother  of  Robin  and  his  little  sister  died,  and  the 
city  woman,  when  she  heard  of  it,  said  to  the 
little  girl :  'You  have  no  mother  and  I  have  no 
little  girl.  I  will  be  your  mother  and  you  shall 
242 


THE  LUCKY  PIECE 

be  my  little  girl.  You  shall  have  all  the  dresses 
and  toys;  even  the  name — I  will  give  you  that.' 
She  would  have  helped  the  boy,  too,  but  he  was 
independent,  even  then,  and  would  accept  noth- 
ing. Then  she  made  them  both  promise  that 
neither  would  ever  say  to  any  one  that  the  little 
girl  was  not  really  hers,  and  she  made  the  little 
girl  promise  that  she  would  not  speak  of  it,  even 
to  her,  for  she  wanted  to  make  every  one,  even 
herself,  believe  that  the  child  was  really  hers. 
She  thought  in  time  it  might  take  the  cloud  from 
her  mind,  and  I  believe  it  did,  but  it  was  years 
before  she  could  even  mention  the  little  dead  girl 
again.  And  the  boy  and  his  sister  kept  their 
promise  faithfully,  though  this  was  not  hard  to 
do,  for  the  rich  parents  took  the  little  girl  away. 
They  sailed  across  the  ocean,  just  as  she  had  ex- 
pected to  do  some  day,  and  she  had  beautiful  toys 
and  dresses  and  books,  just  as  had  always  hap- 
pened in  the  fairy  tales. 

"They  did  not  come  back  from  across  the 
ocean.  The  child's  foster  father  had  interests 
there  and  could  remain  abroad  for  most  of  the 
year,  and  the  mother  cared  nothing  for  America 
any  more.  So  the  little  girl  grew  up  in  another 
land,  and  did  not  see  her  brother  again,  and  no- 
243 


THE  LUCKY   PIECE 

body  knew  that  she  was  not  really  the  child  of 
the  rich  people,  or,  if  any  did  know,  they  forgot. 
"But  the  child  remembered.  She  remembered 
the  mountains  and  the  storms,  and  the  little 
house  at  the  top  of  the  hill,  and  her  mother,  and 
the  brother  who  had  stayed  among  the  hills,  and 
who  wrote  now  and  then  to  tell  them  he  was 
making  his  way.  But  more  than  all  she  remem- 
bered the  prince — her  knight  she  called  him  as 
she  grew  older — because  it  seemed  to  her  that  he 
had  been  so  noble  and  brave  to  come  back  up  the 
hill  and  give  her  his  lucky  piece  that  had  brought 
her  all  the  fortune.  Always  she  kept  the  coin  for 
him,  ready  when  he  should  call  for  it,  and  when 
she  read  how  Elaine  had  embroidered  a  silken 
covering  for  the  shield  of  Launcelot,  she  also  em- 
broidered a  little  silken  casing  for  the  coin  and 
wore  it  on  her  neck,  and  never  a  day  or  night  did 
she  let  it  go  a\vay  from  her.  Some  day  she 
would  meet  him  again,  and  then  she  must  have 
it  ready,  and  being  a  romantic  schoolgirl,  she 
wondered  sometimes  what  she  might  dare  to 
claim  for  it  in  return.  For  he  would  be  a  true, 
brave  knight,  one  of  high  purpose  and  noble 
deeds ;  and  by  day  the  memory  of  the  handsome 
boy  flitted  across  her  books,  and  by  night  she 
244 


THE  LUCKY   PIECE 

dreamed  of  him  as  he  would  some  day  come  to 
her,  all  shining  with  glory  and  high  resolve." 

Again  she  paused,  this  time  as  if  waiting  for 
him  to  speak.  But  now  he  only  stared  at  the 
bushes  in  front  of  him,  and  she  thought  he  had 
grown  a  little  pale.  She  stepped  across  the  wall 
into  the  road. 

"Come,"  she  said;  "I  will  tell  you  the  rest  as 
we  walk  along." 

He  followed  her  over  the  wall.  They  were  at 
the  foot  of  a  hill,  at  the  top  of  which  there  was  a 
vveatherbeaten  little  ruin,  once  a  home.  He  recog- 
nized the  spot  instantly,  though  the  hill  seemed 
shorter  to  him,  and  less  steep.  He  turned  and 
looked  at  her. 

"My  memory  has  all  come  back,"  he  said;  "I 
know  all  the  rest  of  the  story." 

"But  I  must  tell  it  to  you.  I  must  finish  what 
I  have  begun.  The  girl  kept  the  talisman  all  the 
years,  as  I  have  said,  often  taking  it  out  of  the 
embroidered  case  to  study  its  markings,  which 
she  learned  to  understand.  And  she  never  lost 
faith  in  it,  and  she  never  failed  to  believe  that  one 
day  the  knight  with  the  brave,  true  heart  would 
come  to  claim  it  and  to  fulfill  his  bond. 

"And  by  and  by  her  school-days  were  ended, 
245 


THE  LUCKY   PIECE 

and  then  her  parents  decided  to  return  to  their 
native  land.  The  years  had  tempered  the  moth- 
er's sorrow,  and  brought  back  a  measure  of 
health.  So  they  came  back  to  America,  and  for 
the  girl's  sake  mingled  with  gay  people,  and  by 
and  by,  one  day — it  was  at  a  fine  place  and  there 
were  many  fine  folk  there — she  saw  him.  She  saw 
the  boy  who  had  been  her  fairy  prince — who  had 
become  her  knight — who  had  been  her  dream  all 
through  the  years. 

"She  knew  him  instantly,  for  he  looked  just  as 
she  had  known  he  would  look.  He  had  not 
changed,  only  to  grow  taller,  more  manly  and 
more  gentle — just  as  she  had  known  he  would 
grow  with  the  years.  She  thought  he  would  come 
to  her — that  like  every  fairy  prince,  he  must 
know — but  when  at  last  he  stood  before  her,  and 
she  was  trembling  so  that  she  could  hardly  stand, 
he  bowed  and  spoke  only  as  a  stranger  might. 
He  had  forgotten — his  memory  was  so  poor. 

"Yet  something  must  have  drawn  him  to  her. 
For  he  came  often  to  where  she  was,  and  by  and 
by  they  rode  and  drove  and  golfed  together  over 
the  hills,  during  days  that  were  few  but  golden, 
for  the  child  had  found  once  more  her  prince  of 
the  magic  coin — the  knight  who  did  not  remem- 
246 


THE  LUCKY  PIECE 

her,  yet  who  would  one  day  win  his  coin — and 
again  she  dreamed,  this  time  of  an  uplifting, 
noble  life,  and  of  splendid  ambitions  realized  to- 
gether. 

"But,  then,  little  by  little,  she  became  aware 
that  he  was  not  truly  a  knight  of  deeds — that  he 
was  only  a  prince  of  pleasure,  poor  of  ambition 
and  uncertain  of  purpose — that  he  cared  for  little 
beyond  ease  and  pastime,  and  that  perhaps  his 
lovemaking  was  only  a  part  of  it  all.  This  was  a 
rude  awakening  for  the  girl.  It  made  her  un- 
happy, and  it  made  her  act  strangely.  She  tried 
to  rouse  him,  to  stimulate  him  to  do  and  to  be 
many  things.  But  she  was  foolish  and  ignorant 
and  made  absurd  mistakes,  and  he  only  laughed 
at  her.  She  knew  that  he  was  strong  and  capable 
and  could  be  anything  he  chose,  if  he  only  would. 
But  she  could  not  choose  for  him,  and  he  seemed 
willing  to  drift  and  would  not  choose  for  himself. 

"Then,  by  and  by,  she  returned  to  her  beloved 
mountains.  She  found  the  little  cottage  at  the 
hill-top  a  deserted  ruin,  the  Garden  of  Delight 
with  its  little  grave  was  overgrown.  There 
was  one  recompense.  The  brother  she  had  not 
seen  since  her  childhood  had  become  a  noble, 
handsome  man,  of  whom  she  could  well  be  proud. 
247 


THE  LUCKY   PIECE 

No  one  knew  that  he  was  her  brother,  and  she 
could  not  tell  them,  though  perhaps  she  could 
not  avoid  showing  her  affection  and  her  pride  in 
him,  and  these  things  were  misunderstood  and 
caused  suspicion  and  heartache  and  bitterness. 

"Yet  the  results  were  not  all  evil,  for  out  of  it 
there  came  a  moment  when  she  saw,  almost  as  a 
new  being,  him  who  had  been  so  much  a  part  of 
her  life  so  long." 

They  were  nearly  at  the  top  of  the  hill  now. 
But  a  little  more  and  they  would  reach  the  spot 
where  ten  years  before  the  child  with  the  saucer 
of  berries  had  waited  for  the  passing  stage. 

"He  had  awakened  at  last,"  she  went  on,  "but 
the  girl  did  not  know  it.  She  did  not  realize  that 
he  had  renewed  old  hopes  and  ambitions;  that 
some  feeling  in  his  heart  for  her  had  stirred  old 
purposes  into  new  resolves.  He  did  not  tell  her, 
though  unconsciously  she  may  have  known,  for 
after  a  day  of  adventure  together  on  the  hills 
something  of  the  old  romance  returned,  and  her 
old  ideal  of  knighthood  little  by  little  seemed 
about  to  be  restored.  And  then,  all  at  once,  it 
came — the  hour  of  real  trial,  with  a  test  of  which 
she  could  not  even  have  dreamed — and  he  stood 
before  her,  glorified." 

248 


THE  LUCKY  PIECE 

They  were  at  the  hill-top.  The  flat  stone  in 
front  of  the  tumbled  house  still  remained.  As 
they  reached  it  she  stopped,  and  turning  suddenly 
stretched  out  her  hand  to  him,  slowly  opening 
it  to  disclose  a  little  silken  case.  Her  eyes  were 
wet  with  tears. 

"Oh,  my  dear!"  she  said.  "Here,  where  you 
gave  me  the  talisman,  I  return  it.  I  have  kept  it 
for  you  all  the  years.  It  brought  me  whatever 
the  world  had  to  give — friends,  fortune,  health. 
You  did  not  claim  it,  dear ;  but  it  is  yours,  and  in 
return,  oh,  my  fairy  prince — my  true  knight — I 
claim  the  world's  best  treasure — a  brave  man's 
faithful  love!" 


249 


THE  LUCKY   PIECE 

EPILOGUE 

It  is  a  lonely  thoroughfare,  that  North  Elba 
road.  Not  many  teams  pass  to  and  fro,  and  the 
clattering  stage  was  still  a  mile  away.  The  eter- 
nal peaks  alone  looked  down  upon  these  two,  for 
it  is  not  likely  that  even  the  leveled  glass  of  any 
hermit  of  the  mountain-tops  saw  what  passed  be- 
tween them. 

Only,  from  Algonquin  and  Tahawus  there 
came  a  gay  little  wind — the  first  brisk  puff  of 
autumn — and  frolicking  through  a  yellow  tree  in 
the  forsaken  dooryard  it  sent  fluttering  about 
them  a  shower  of  drifting  gold. 


THE    END 


250 


UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIBRARY 

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This  book  is  DUE  on  the  last  date  stamped  below. 


ID 
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MAY  25 


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